


Green Corners

by rustling_pages



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Elemental Magic AU, Familiars, Friends to Lovers, Gardening with Magic, Grief and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Myth Arc, Past Character Death (Child), Platonic Bedsharing, Slow Burn, Threat of Main Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-08-14 08:57:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 72,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16489541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rustling_pages/pseuds/rustling_pages
Summary: After the death of his son, there is nothing left for Dean other than his garden market. His days are tough, the nights are tougher, but at least there's a reason to get up in the morning. And with the new boom on do-it-yourself garden magic, his business is going okay.Amidst the passing of time, there is only one thing that distracts him from functioning like a normal human being: Diagonally across the street, in the display window of that traditional Herb and Potion shop, plants are dying in masses.Storming in to confront the owner goes differently than he imagined, though. Castiel Novak may be the kind of guy who wears old-fashioned mage robes and keeps his shop in sweltering heat, but he's also a talented herbalist, the kindest soul Dean has ever met, and utterly beautiful.Not that Dean is ready for anything other than friendship.(Not that Cas doesn’t get sick a bit too often.)Entry for the DCBB 2018 - Art by harplesscastiel





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _So. Here it is, this year's Big Bang fic! As I wrote most of it last November, I'm especially excited to finally get to share this with you guys._
> 
> _A couple of things about the story:_
> 
> _1) I don't know as much about gardening and plant care as I should. I am incredibly lazy when it comes to doing research, and in the end, I just pushed it ahead of myself until finally, it was too late. So please forgive general vagueness and whatever inaccuracies remain._
> 
> _2) The fact that I did write a lot about greenhouses is in large parts owed to a childhood friend of mine whose parents had a garden market. We always played in and around them, and it was phenomenal. I obviously did not learn all the parts of their jobs, but I do know it's incredibly demanding and there is no time to take time off. As it is, I know that a garden market as large as Dean's needs a couple more employees. Dean is, however, extremely stubborn about not interacting with people at the beginning of the story, and therefore (unrealistically) manages on his own._
> 
> _3) I have been lucky enough not to have lost anyone close to me to an untimely death. Therefore, all aspects of grief depicted here are not based on my own experiences. That said, I do know about self-destructive behaviour and depression. I hope I did this sensitive subject justice._
> 
> _4) Also, the lack of special guest appearances by canon!verse characters is owed to not having been sure whether I wanted to write this as fanfic or original fiction. Sorry!_
> 
> _That said, I was absolutely blessed to get to work with harplesscastiel for this fic, who created simply[stunning art](http://harplesscastiel.tumblr.com/post/180673057300/heres-some-art-with-a-mismatched-color-scheme)_ _that will hopefully make you smile as much as I did! Thank you so much for choosing this fic to illustrate, I couldn't have dreamed up a better partner! <3_
> 
> _Additional multitudes of thanks to my friend and beta Meg, without whom I might not have published this at all. Your continuous support and help means the world to me!_
> 
> _And now, after you skipped reading this, I present to you: 'Green Corners'!_

_ Most of the gods of old still remember the glory of their creation. _

_ They remember well the wrath and the sorrow and the joy that brought them into being; a song like a wail, like the drawn-out end of a sigh. That sacred space language will never reach, that comes before music, before idea, before meaning. The precipice before understanding, and the eternal potential of the leap that must follow. _

_ They remember it well, as it was an experience they could never replicate. _

_ They remember even better the long confusion that came after. There was no one to explain anything to them, no one to guide their deeds. There was no purpose. There was only them, and the planet they were placed on. _

_ Arguments emerged, of course, about what to do. According to their nature, they were too many leaders, too few without an opinion. Ultimately, a war not between fractions, but every god fighting for themselves, every one among them fighting most of the others. As the gods of old could not die, there were no casualties other than the mortal lives they had not taken much notice of. _

_ The divide was so great it cleaved mountains in two, split the earth into irreconcilable continents, the sea into trenches and dark spaces forever lost to all. _

 

**Chapter I**

Almost diagonally across the street from where Dean does his business, there is this house. It’s older than the rest of the neighborhood, and you can tell it once was a stately thing, filled with magic and pride.

A long time ago, strong hands stacked solid stone, dark and cracked now, on top of each other to build a broad structure, meant to last the ages.

In between the masonry, there are the withered branches of an old tree. Perhaps it grew with the house, burrowed into its foundations and held up its walls, but that was a long time ago. The trunk has cracked open, the bark peels away to reveal dried out wood. Only one branch still brings forth the green tips of spring leaves. Whatever former stability it may have given the mansion, now the stonework has shifted, and overall, the walls have become rather lopsided.

Over the top of fading leaves, the shingles of an actual cheerful little spire can be seen. It must be made of true copper, but the gleam has long since dulled and the oxidation has left only a sickly green.

It once was a beautiful building, and every time Dean looks at it, he huffs in anger.

It’s not the lack of upkeep that bothers him though. If it were merely a run-down living space, he could avert his eyes and go about his own business as he should. But built into the mansion is one of these old-fashioned herb and potion shops, proclaimed by large gold letters peeling away from green paint that has seen better days. Two large windows frame a crooked little door, formerly red.

And in the windows, there’s the display. 

Dean has stopped in front of it often enough to have noted it’s consistently dust-free and well-maintained.

The main feature of the left window are five bottles of different sizes and shapes. Fine blue glass, obviously made by a very talented and very expensive glassblower specializing in ostentatious containers for cure-alls, memory-refreshers and bottled up rollercoasters. 

As a mineral mage, Dean knows all too well that blue glass is completely unnecessary. As any type of glass, it is inert and will not react to even the most potent of spells. Still, it’s a pretty enough sight, those fine bottles with their outrageous stoppers and spindly thin handles all laid out on supple purple satin. The only qualms he has with the left window are a certain kind of pretentiousness.

It’s the right window which causes him almost physical pain, and it’s so extreme he can never seem to stop his eyes from straying there. Because the right window is home to pots of herbs and flowers. Actually, home is the exact wrong word choice for it: it’s an  _ entirely inhospitable environment _ .

It is obvious that the owner really tries to keep the display tasteful and neat. Every two days, the plants get exchanged, so that leaves eaten by the stunted rays of sun, and flowers wilted by lack of water or rot from too much of it never do have the chance to really show their suffering. And your regular passer-by would likely not even notice anything amiss. They might stop there for a bit, look at the plants and deem them pretty, and either go into the shop or continue their stroll down the street into the fields that lie at the edge of town.

But Dean feels it. Down to his soul, he feels it. Down to his professional and personal pride. He might not be a true herbalist, but he is a gardener, and the thought of those once cheerful plants piling up in sad heaps of compost comes as close to a personal slight as he can still experience these days.

Really, he should be grateful the shop is in such a state. It still has some of its charm, and especially the really old and traditional, and the clueless and hip still visit it every once in a while. It certainly seems to be enough to keep the business running, even if it can’t seem to pay for a paint job or even for clearing the drain pipe of the heaps of fallen leaves still clogging it up even in early spring.

People do still frequent it, but the truth is, there is such a sad aura around it now, most people take one good look at it, get a little nostalgic for magical times gone by, and then turn around to find Dean’s greenhouses, with their polished glass panes, the more practical selection of decorative, fruit-wielding or house magic plants, and most importantly, its abundance of green.

Real, properly alive  _ green _ .

Dean has rightfully named his garden market ‘Green Corners’ and it is welcoming in every way; he has made damn sure of it. He had no lack of customers. Even discounting regular people only meaning to liven up their gardens, terrasses and living spaces, do-it-yourself potion brewing and herb growing has begun to establish itself, even among hipsters. It’s a concept that just works and the last thing Dean wants to be is stuck in the past. 

But every single time Dean glances over at that house, he knows there are plants dying and he has to force himself to turn away in order to keep from losing his brittle calm. To greet people with the most honest smile he can manage.

* * *

Dean’s usual days range from bearable to bad and while his very bad days have become rarer, this has been one. Despite his best efforts, the vast majority of Menthe saplings has contracted a very nasty case of dry rot, and neither he nor Kevin nor even Bobby, whom he resigned to call for a consult, has the power to undo the damage done to the plants.

So he is going to have to destroy a great number of them. Plants which should have grown tall and green, soothed headaches and digestive issues, helped chase away sadness with a fresh scent and their unfailing uplifting magic. Plants which should have  _ lived _ .

He is just on his way back from the greenhouse he’s grown them in for the past weeks, fuming and sad and blaming himself for not having checked them thoroughly enough, when he sees movement in the right window of the old house.

Someone is exchanging the plants for fresh ones again.

Without really thinking about it, Dean smacks his apron down onto the counter, and as good as runs across the street. The guy in the window has just turned around to reach for more pots of plants doomed by sheer idiocy, so he doesn’t see Dean coming over, but he does look up when Dean knocks on the glass in barely contained fury.

He looks up and for a moment, Dean freezes in astonishment.

The guy in the window is much younger than Dean expected to be the proprietor of such an old-fashioned shop. He looks to be mid-thirties; even early thirties if one were to wipe away the obvious exhaustion pouring off him. Just a couple of years older than Dean, maybe.

He’s also kind of attractive, even with that bemused look on his well-cut face.

But that’s really kind of neither here nor there. One look at a sadly drooping little Umbrian basil and the mission is clear again, self-righteous anger restored.

Trying to express as much consternation as he is capable of, Dean points at the plant. The man follows his finger, confusion drawing even sharper lines between his tired eyes. He looks back at Dean with a little squinty head-tilt.

Dean huffs and decides this is not the way to have this conversation and points first to himself, then to the door. Which is actually very superfluous, though the sheer bafflement on the guy’s face says otherwise.

Dean stomps into the building, not letting himself be distracted by the haunting melody played by the wooden chimes over the door. Inside, the shop is uncomfortably hot, probably due to the fire blazing at the other end of the room. It burns all the moisture out of the air. Seriously, doesn’t that guy know anything about plant care?

Surprisingly, he actually has to turn a few corners past crowded shelves (though, much like the display, immaculately clean), until he finally faces the correct window.

The man is crawling out of it, a distinct heaviness to each movement. Dean tries not to let that take away his own momentum, and grinds out, “Hey man, I don’t wanna tell you how to run your shop, but that is not the way you treat plants!”

Dean is taller, and not just due to the slump of the guy’s shoulders. If he chose to stand up straight, Dean probably wouldn’t tower over him quite as much, but as it is, he feels almost bad for yelling at someone who is practically cowering.

Though it doesn’t seem like fear at all. The man still does nothing except look at him. Contrasted with the sunlight outside undisturbed by the dead end of a tree branch, his unruly black hair is glowing a little around the edges. It gives him the look of a sun mage of old. Far removed from reality and probably belonging into one of those myths and legends. 

“You are here,” the man begins, hesitation coloring his gravelly voice, “to tell me off about my herbs?”

Dean is starting to feel like a world-class idiot, but what’s a little humiliation in the face of mistreated plants.

“Look, I’m a gardener. I know plants. I love plants. Plants are my thing. And what you’re doing to them-…” He backtracks, because even he can tell he’s starting to sound like a lunatic. “All I’m saying is, maybe I could give you some tips. About how to actually care for the herbs you have instead of replacing them every second day.”

He suddenly notices that the man is holding the pot with the wilting Umbrian basil close to his body like a child might hold a beloved stuffed animal. Like he’s protecting it and like it’s protecting him.

The man is silent for a while, but he’s looking at something behind Dean with a frown he can’t place.

Eventually, he says, “You are the owner of the garden market across the street, are you not?” 

And apparently, Dean is the kind of asshole who barges into other people’s shops to yell at them without even introducing himself first. “Dean. I-… I’m Dean.” 

“Very well, Dean.” He nods and his eyes settle on Dean’s again. He can’t see the color against the backdrop of the sun in the window, but he unexpectedly finds himself wanting to know it. “My name is Castiel. I would like to show you something. If you could step aside for a moment?”

Dean does, and the light leaves Castiel’s hair. Without it, there’s nothing otherworldly about him at all. He just looks like a weary man whose day suddenly includes having to defend himself to a plant-obsessed maniac off the streets. His eyes are very blue. 

When Castiel walks past Dean with slow, measured steps, he actually gives Dean a small smile which makes his stomach do a very unpleasant roll. But there’s really nothing to do but follow.

They walk through the labyrinthine assembly of shelves, cabinets and cupboards. Castiel briefly stops to put one more log into the still roaring fire, and Dean notices his clothes for the first time. He’s not an expert on old-fashioned mage’s robes – his family has always been a bit more modern and practical and also far less wealthy – but he’s pretty sure the ensemble the guy is wearing is the winter version. All black, long sleeves of a heavy, dense material, equally heavy runework set into the seams in precise blue thread. Castiel isn’t wearing the hood, but Dean is fairly certain with it in place, the guy could probably hold out a couple of hours in a blizzard. Yet he’s still heating up his shop to a temperature far too high even for flannel-wearing Dean.

“Dude, why so hot?” he’s said before he can bite his tongue as Castiel takes up the potted plant again.

He looks back at Dean, as if startled. “Oh, I apologize. I didn’t realize it was getting too warm.”

The more time Dean spends in this guy’s presence, the more he wishes he’d just never walked over in the first place. Not because Castiel is unpleasant, but because he seems genuinely quite disturbed about someone not liking the way he handles his own affairs.

“It’s cool, man. Forget it.”

A frown. “I thought you said it was hot?”

Dean takes a beat in which he very carefully parses if this is a joke or a genuine question. 

“It’s a figure of speech,” he says eventually, trying for mild irony and ending up at irritated.

Castiel’s shoulders seem to slump even further. “Oh,” he says. 

Dean really, really shouldn’t have come here. He can barely deal with customers and employees. This is way above his current capabilities. 

“Really, it’s nice in here,” he amends, suddenly too cheerful, “Clean. And is that sage you’re burning?”

Castiel regards him for a moment, eyebrows just the tiniest bit closer together than before. ‘I swear I’m not making fun of you,’ Dean is just about to say, when Castiel decides Dean is not and answers, “Yes. Sage and hazel.”

“Smells good,” Dean says honestly, relieved. 

“Thank you.” There’s that small smile again, and again Dean’s stomach sort of flip-flops. It becomes difficult not to notice the guy looks extremely good in the light of the fire. All sharp angles and flickering shadows, and blue, blue eyes in contrast with the orange hues of his skin in this light.

He’s still kind of stuck on that when Castiel turns away again and says, “It’s just through here.”

He opens a door and for a moment, Dean is almost blinded by the sudden intensity of green light after the dimness of the shop.

It’s a greenhouse.

(Of course it is. What else could it be. Dean is such an asshole.)

It’s smaller than Dean’s more commercial collection of glass buildings, and indefinitely more art-nouveau, but definitely a beautifully cultivated greenhouse.

“Step through, please.”

Dean is spurred back into action and stumbles the rest of the way inside, while Castiel carefully closes the door behind them. “To keep the bees out of the shop,” he explains with a fond look, as his eyes follow one of them buzzing pleasantly past them.

Dean finds his voice long enough to say, “You have bees in a greenhouse.”

“They live in the garden, but I like to let them in occasionally, especially for pollination season.”

The pleasant humid warmth is a far cry from the bone-dry heat of the shop, but it does explain the fire. Dean’s best guess is a sort of hypocaust under the terracotta floor. The glass walls and narrow dome above them are tinged in different colours, so intrepidly fused together with wrought iron the gradient in blue and green and yellow looks as natural as it looks like a work of art. Dean would never have put as many plants in such a small space himself, but much like within the shop, it’s well-ordered crowdedness. Row upon row of plants are anchored into a sort of pulley mechanism that lets you choose which one to work on.

To call this greenhouse elegant would be an understatement. 

“Shit, I’m such a douche,” Dean says, mouth finally snapping closed again. “You’re an herbalist.”

It would appear the shop actually grows many of the plants that later become expensive potions. Specifically, this man does. 

“I am,” he says simply. Dean waits for judgement, for an insult in trade for the one he had unjustly given, but no such thing seems to be forthcoming. Instead, Castiel looks at him gently, utterly at home in this green miracle. 

So Dean asks, “Then what’s with the plants in the display?”  

The sadness sitting in the crinkles of his eyes grows more pronounced as Castiel looks down at the small pot of Umbrian basil he’s still carrying. “They’re the ones I can’t save.” And just like that, Dean feels very small. “I do my best, but as you know, sometimes there is no cure and they waste away. My abilities allow me to feel which plants are beyond my help, even before they begin showing their disease.”

Dean nods numbly. “So you put them into the window.”

“Yes. I figure the least I can do for them is make sure they are appreciated by someone other than me, if only for a short time.”

He smiles at the little Umbrian basil, lays the palm of his hand over a few of its mottled leaves, with no magic forthcoming to lift them up. Now that Dean knows the full story, he understands it’s the loving goodbye of a parent who can’t do more than say goodbye.

He feels almost sick, suddenly, thrown back to a hospital room and not watching Lisa hold Ben’s hand as his heart stops beating.

“That’s…” He gulps down memories, pulls himself back into this green world. “I’m honestly such an asshole.”

And Castiel actually lays a hand on Dean’s upper arm and very earnestly says, “You’re clearly very passionate about plants, Dean. I could never fault anyone for caring too much.”

And it just figures that the one guy Dean chooses to take out his own problems on is one of the kindest people he has ever met. And also has the most gorgeous eyes Dean has ever seen. And they’re having a moment, which Dean absolutely does not need right now.

“What minerals are you putting into your soil?”, he asks. It’s a sufficient distraction.

 

_ Eventually, the gods of old knew their feuds were as futile as the rest of their existence. _

_ The Earth recovered. The gods, who could not create anything new, could at least bring it order. _

_ And when mankind appeared, they were better prepared. They had established fields of expertise, priorities arranged by what they had previously fought for. They were ready to be the guides the gods had never had. _

_ And mankind was a miracle. _

_ They learned faster than the gods. Found their own order, and did not remain content with it. They did what the gods could never do and created. Created tools and art and civilizations. They never learned not to fight each other, but at least they seemed to have a reason. _

_ And the gods watched with pride and fear as mankind surpassed their own capabilities. They began to understand mankind may pray to them, but truly, they did not need the gods. _

_ So they began to give gifts. The gods did not posses the power to create, but they had the abilities to shape the elements that made up the Earth. This, they passed on. _


	2. Chapter 2

Dean’s magical abilities are limited and easily defined. Not even puberty with its volatile periods of sudden and quickly lost talent made him deviate much from his skillset.

He can do basic to advanced water spells and some very simple rune-work. If he focuses, he can feel the presence of other people’s more potent magic, particularly if they are as strong as Castiel is. And what he really excels at is understanding different types of rocks. 

Sand, soil, actual boulders, as long as they consist of minerals, he is in his element. 

So much even that his teachers pushed him to pursue a career in Geomorphology. Dean, however, had and still has very little interest in understanding  _ why exactly _ different types of minerals have different types of magical energies. Therefore, neither well-meant prodding nor disappointed pleas had moved him to veer from the course he set for himself. It means he hasn’t had the opportunity to work with the rarer gemstones that supposedly hold a lot more untapped magical energy than your average quartz or slate, so he really wouldn’t be able to judge their comparative effectiveness. He never learned why minerals act the way they do, nor does he care.

What he’s good at – what he loves – is  _ feeling _ what they can do, and figuring out how he can apply it to gardening. Truly, he excels at working with the ordinary. There is no need to consult one of the many textbooks written on the subject; his use of minerals is completely intuitive. And whether some professor who has dedicated his life to writing monographies about one particular type of carneol only found in Western Borneo agrees with Dean’s assessment or not, it does the job and it does it well.

Dean knows his minerals. It is the one thing in his life he has always been able to depend upon.

Still, standing outside Castiel’s shop with a jar full of ground down rocks, he’s nervous about it for the first time in years. Not that he didn’t prepare this special mixture to the absolute best of his abilities. It might actually be the most careful he’s been in ages, every step of the process carefully evaluated and executed with precision.

Dean knows minerals and he knows plants. And while Castiel turned out to be a whole lot better at working with plants – having a magical ability for it so finely honed it’s surprising flowers don’t spring from the asphalt beneath his feet – there were a couple of things about the soil Dean knew he could improve.

He was gone too long yesterday, and there was too much to do upon his return to his own business to even keep thinking of the strange encounter with the owner of the shop across the street. But the second he had time to breathe again – his greenhouses officially closed for customers, the teenager who sometimes helps out sent home, the plants watered and carefully inspected for signs of approaching rot – Dean went into the shed at the very back of his grounds and began working on concocting a mixture perfect for that one row of nightshade.

He selected the rocks necessary, his fingers itching for them whenever he touched the ones his magic deemed best, and wrote down which ones he took for the resupply order. Next, he put them into the rock grinder, one by one crushed into fine dust caught in a glass jar (non-fancy), the machine diligently cleaned after each type of mineral. Lastly, he carefully measured out the amounts of each type until he was completely certain he had the perfect mixture. And only then, he poured the sand into one big mixing bowl, shook it longer than strictly necessary, and finally carefully scooped the mixture into two different containers: A small jar he would keep for himself, which he carefully labeled and put into the cupboard that held all his samples, and a larger one for Castiel.

It's honestly some of his best work.

And yet, he hesitates a ridiculously long time in front of the closed door.

Of course, part of this waiting period is spent looking at the window to his right, at the poor doomed plants that get one last glimpse of glory. It’s a very different way of regarding those plants now, and he feels ridiculously guilty over all the ones he’d only looked at in anger. True, it had been anger on their behalf, not directed at them, but they were supposed to bring joy in their last days, and Dean feels he single-handedly deprived them of this purpose.

When he looks at this batch of plants, he still can’t feel joy, knowing that they are already dying, but he can see their beauty, their dignity, and most importantly, he can see the love Castiel has for them.

Taking a deep breath, Dean finally pushes the door open.

This time, the chimes play a different melody, still somewhat sad, but a little less pure melancholy and a little more... jazzy?

It’s also not quite as hot inside, though still a shock to the system after the cool early March air. Dean came prepared, though. Namely, he hurried across the street in a t-shirt and the proceeded to get really cold when he couldn’t bring himself to go inside for a good ten minutes. So the heat is actually kind of a relief. It carries a different scent, too. Sandalwood, maybe. Something earthier than sage.

Castiel looks changed as well. His hair is still a mess, but his gaze is brighter, sharper, and he’s wearing a more temperature-appropriate set of robes. Still black with a blue rune trim, and still way out of Dean’s prize range even if they were his style, but no longer stifling-looking.

What’s also different is the smile that immediately transforms his sharp eyes into something deep and unfathomable and disconcertingly welcoming to fall into.

“Hello, Dean,” he says, and his voice sounds firmer as well. Still as raspy as if he’s been inhaling smoke for the last six hours – technically speaking, he probably did – but without yesterday’s very noticeable weariness.

Dean waves, shuffles over to the counter Castiel is emerging from, and very casually says, “Hi, Cas. Brought you something.”

Those insanely blue eyes fall to the jar Dean is holding up, and as nervous as Dean still is, it’s worth the slight quirk of his lips.

“Just something for your nightshade. If you want it. I mean, you did a good job on the soil, don’t get me wrong, but it’s kind of my specialty.”

And as soon as those words have left his lips, Dean wishes he could take them back. Because, by all the stars in the sky, did he seriously show up in this guy’s shop to tell him how to do his job  _ again _ ?

But before he can stutter an apology, Castiel is saying, “This is very thoughtful of you, Dean. Would you like to help me embed it into the soil?”

And this is how he ends up once more following Cas into his greenhouse. He walks faster today, Dean notices, stands taller. He has good shoulders underneath that robe.

Inside the greenhouse, Dean closes the door quickly behind him, which turns out to be a good idea, since once more, there are bees flying all over the place. He breathes in the air as Castiel is operating the machinery to access the row holding the nightshade, enjoys the humid smells of plants both common and exotic. Watches as the sun breaks through the clouds long enough to light up the part of the greenhouse Cas is standing in and dips him into sudden gold.

“Which rocks did you use?” Castiel asks and Dean ambles over, the jar still in his hand, and momentarily distracted by the sight of the other man pushing up his sleeves. They reveal surprisingly muscled forearms, a slender wrist dipping towards a broad palm and elegant fingers. Maybe it’s just the sunlight, but Cas looks a lot less pale than he did yesterday, too.

“Dean?”

Dean shakes himself out of it and begins listing the minerals. To most of the, Castiel nods along, but after Dean mentioned serpentine, he interjects, “Isn’t serpentine a magically inert substance?”

Dean very empathetically shakes his head. “Dude, that’s what the textbooks want you to think. It doesn’t always work, is the problem, only in combination with some other minerals. In here, it’ll nicely balance the citroen.”

Castiel hums and nods in contemplation, and Dean finishes his list.

“You’ve put a lot of thought into this.”

Dean scratches the back of his neck. “Nah, it’s not that big a deal. And it’s not thought, more intuition. I’m not actually a herbalist, you know. I don’t feel plants the way you do, can’t influence them. But I’m good with minerals.”

“It’s very impressive, Dean. And much appreciated. I’m sure my nightshade shares the sentiment.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I mean, I’ve got a pretty good feeling about this, but it’s not doing anything to help yet.”

“You’re absolutely right.”

He carefully sets down the jar on a small work space at the end of the moveable row. Dean is almost impressed to note he doesn’t put on an apron to protect his expensive robes. Then again, anyone able to afford that kind of fabric probably doesn’t need to make sure it doesn’t get dirty. Besides, all they’re doing is push aside some of the earth.

“Would you like some gloves, Dean?”

Castiel himself does not seem like he’s about to wear any, which nudges him up even further in Dean’s estimation. 

“No thanks, for work like this, I like to feel what I’m doing.”

“I do as well.”

They silently begin by carefully stripping away about an inch of topsoil, then carefully nudge apart some of the lower earth, closer to the roots. Dean notices they use a similar technique, and are both very gentle with it.

Castiel unstoppers the jar and holds it out to Dean. His hand is brown with dirt, and Dean just really, really likes the way that looks. He pours part of the mixture into Dean’s palm – not too much at once – and immediately, Dean’s skin tingles with the low thrum of magic.

“What does this feel like to you?” Castiel asks with curiosity as he shakes some into his own hands.

“Good. Right. It’s hard to describe, it just kind of-… I just know it’s effective.”

Castiel hums again and begins dispensing the mixture over his part of the row. He doesn’t spread too much, but he does it evenly.

“I have no sensibilities for minerals,” he smiles and it’s particularly devastating in the sunlight, “but it feels right to me, too.”

Dean quickly focuses back at his own stretch of soil. Near the roots, he makes small deposits of the mixture, then spreads the earth back over it.

“How’s your way with water?” Dean asks after a moment of quiet. 

“I’m a fire mage, in addition to my work with plants, so water isn’t one of my strengths. Do you think the soil is too dry?”

“No, no, it’s good, especially for nightshade. They’re all water-sensitive minerals, though, and watering them activates the mixture. But I’d wait until your usual watering cycle.”

“I can dry the ground out a little and we can water it right now, if you prefer it.”

To be honest, Dean probably would have left it at the plan he just proposed, but he’s curious to see this side of Castiel in action.

“Yeah, sounds good.”

Castiel smiles and fetches a candle from a workbench. He lights it with a match, then holds it in one hand while he puts the other on top of the soil. It’s a comfort to see he doesn’t have the kind of immense power that doesn’t need contact to the elements he’s working with, but simply conducts and amplifies like most mages do. The air around him heats up and the small flame grows larger, rapidly eating away at the candle, while Dean can almost feel the soil losing some of its moisture.

He stops after only a short time – impressively at exactly the moment when Dean would have warned him not to dry it out too much – opens his eyes and softly puts the candle down before blowing it out. 

“Is that why you like it so warm in your shop?” Dean asks, “A fire mage thing?”

“Hmm, yes, it certainly contributes. However, yesterday was a bad day. I may have overdone it a little.”

“It wasn’t a good day for me either, you know,” Dean says, almost without meaning to. It’s good though. He should speak. Has he even really appologized? “Uhm, that’s why I freaked out on you. Wasn’t cool of me. I’d just lost a whole lot of saplings to dry rot that I caught too late, and I guess seeing more dying plants kind of made me snap.”

“I could-…,” Castiel hesitates, looks at Dean searchingly. “If you would like, I could check up on your plants. Feel if there is anything amiss that might still be salvageable.”

Dean stood up straighter, eyes immediately catching Castiel’s. 

“That-… You’d do that? I mean, that’d be great! I’m a decent enough gardener, I think, but having someone there who can actually sense these sorts of things would really help.”

Castiel smiles. Big, crinkly. If Dean were less of a mess, he’d be in serious trouble. 

“It would be my pleasure,” Castiel insists. “I’m very curious to see how you work and which plants you favor in your greenhouses. I admit, I’ve almost come over before, but-… I felt intimidated by how modern everything looked.”

“You were intimidated by me?” Dean actually laughs at that. “Dude, you’re like this super talented herbalist who’s running a shop in the old tradition – and I do know the old tradition is a hell of a lot more complicated than what I do. If anything, I should be nervous about you inspecting my plants.”

The smile fades into something calmer, a little sad. 

“I don’t want you to be nervous, Dean. I don’t want to be nervous, either.”

Dean takes a deep breath. “Deal,” he says, and finds he doesn’t feel trapped by it. This might change. He might blow Castiel off. But-... it’s nice. Right now. He can barely even remember what nice is like. 

“Would you like to work the water into the soil?” Castiel gently asks. The plants are covered, the soil the perfect consistency to start with. 

“Oh, sure.” And despite what they just said, Dean’s nerves flare up. 

He walks over to the tap and pours some water into a large bowl. It has a simple water rune at the bottom and Dean says, “Nice, I have one of those, too.” It’s not even a particularly old one. You could probably buy this at any regular store.

“Yes, I like working with runes,” Castiel hums, with a gentle smile. “I have little talent for inscribing them myself, but they’re certainly effective.”

Having carried the water bowl over to the flower bed, Dean adds just a little bit of leftover mixture to it. He dips a hand into the water, closes his eyes and mutters a quick incantation. It’s not quite the same intensity of connection as he has when working with minerals, but it’s still nice.

Then he uses a small rain bowl – also inscribed with benevolent runes – to slowly and evenly spread the water between the plants. Finally, he puts both bowls down and lays his palms on top of the soil. With a little focus, he makes sure the water moistens up the ground without soaking it and reaches the mineral deposits. It feels great.

“Yeah, that should do the trick,” he says with a satisfied smile when he’s finished. He looks up at Castiel, and maybe he’s having genuine heart problems, but it definitely skips a few beats at the sight of that open, warm smile. Stars, but he’s pretty. His hair is glowing again, most of the shadows gone from his face, and his eyes are just insane.

Dean clears his throat and washes his hands in the water bowl. “I’d keep that, spread the rest of it when you water it next time.”

“Thank you, Dean.”

“Dude, seriously, don’t thank me. It was the least I could do.”

He means it.

* * *

Castiel said he could either come over at the end of his work day or the next morning before he opens up the shop, and because Dean had a sudden case of panic over the way his greenhouses looked, they agreed on the morning.

So Dean spent the rest of the day making sure everything was top notch. And because he’s very good at his job and takes pride in having order in the naturally evolving chaos of plant-care, his fears proved to be unfounded. Sure, there was work to do – more work for having stretched out his lunch break to the max in order to bring his mineral mixture over to Castiel. There were bushes to trim, a few brown leaves to remove, tools to clean and put away into the tool shed, plants to water and saplings to plant with a lot of care and his signature mixture for Asteraceae. But even for a critical eye – which Dean has and which he suspects Cas probably wouldn’t apply to his place of business – it looks pretty damn good.

Still, he got home late, and basically passed out on the spot.

Which leads to waking up to a growling stomach, slight nausea, and having sweated through his t-shirt in the throes of the usual bad dreams.

It’s still dark outside – the sun still a few hours away from rising up over the horizon – and the coffee Dean blearily prepares for himself doesn’t exactly do much to settle his stomach. He can’t even be bothered to try to encourage the water he makes it with to have any positive effects on him. He just takes it straight from the tap. The pitcher he usually fills as a reservoir is empty, the three large quartz stones he cut runes into himself listless and dry at the crusted bottom.

He should take better care of himself, but when he’s not at the greenhouse, more often than not he can’t be bothered.

Even Pala, his crow familiar, seems to sense today is a particularly bad day, because she gives Dean a longer time than usual until she starts complaining about the empty food bowl. She hops onto his shoulder and tugs on his ear, but it does nothing to cheer him up.

Dean gnaws on a piece of bread, thickly spread with butter, and chokes down a boiled egg, but his stomach still feels pretty bad even with breakfast in it.

The drive out to the greenhouses wakes him up a little, or at least the gentle rain that starts falling half a minute before he steps out of the door does. It turns into a regular downpour by the time he has parked.

There are days when he can appreciate getting a little wet – it is one of his elements, after all – but today, in the wake of his nightmares still sitting heavily in his bones, the small tinges of magic feel annoying rather than comforting. He wishes he had Castiel’s phone number to tell him not to come over.

He unlocks the greenhouse, lets in Pala, who’s as unamused by the rain as he is, and slowly begins preparing for the day. Walking past the sad heap of dying Menthe fouls his mood even further. He hasn’t been able to bring himself to throw them out and the sight of them brings back the nausea with a vengeance.

He makes it to the toilet before emptying his stomach. On his back, Pala hops around softly and croons a little. When nothing more comes up, she tugs on a few strands of his hair with her beak. It’s sweet, but he wonders why she bothers. It’s the kind of day where he isn’t even sure why he bothers.

That’s how Castiel finds him, walking back from the toilet after having rinsed out his mouth and gulped down half a glass of water.

He has a different type of robe on today, with runes in red thread that Dean vaguely identifies as fire runes meant to keep the wearer dry. They appear to have mostly worked. There is little more on the fabric than single pearls of rain. It’s nowhere near as warm in Dean’s greenhouses as it is in Castiel’s building, but so far, he seems unbothered. He’s carrying two cups of tea and his smile turns into a worried frown as soon as he sees Dean.

“What’s wrong?”

Well, at least he’s not one to beat around the bush.

“Bad night. Nauseous,” Dean summarizes in a clipped tone Cas definitely doesn’t deserve, and walks past him. Castiel doesn’t take the hint, and remains standing in the doorway. He looks down at the teacups with a frown.

“I brought the green tea lemon grass mixture I like to start my mornings with” – caffeine and good vibes, figures – “but I think you might be more in need of a different type of beverage.”

Dean scoffs and turns away to open up the register to count what he’s starting the day with. “Unless that beverage is whiskey, I’m really not interested, Cas.”

“No, you’re probably not, but it will be good for you. I’ll be right back.”

He doesn’t bother pulling his hood back on as he strides across the street, and Dean feels about a thousand times worse now. The two cups sit steaming on a shelf of petunias, and instead of breaking his knuckles against a steel beam, Dean takes one up and sniffs it.

It smells good, like the kind of thing Lisa sometimes made, and his eyes are very wet suddenly.

_ Fuck.  _

It’s not a good day, and he just yelled at the last guy who deserves it. 

He sits down on the bench decoratively placed between chrysanthemums and lilies, buries his face in his hands and tries to get a grip. Pala has fluttered over to him and is rubbing her beak on the back of Dean’s hand.

He doesn’t deserve this kindness. He doesn’t deserve any of this.

Yet, despite what he may or may not deserve, Castiel returns and sits down next to him. Not close enough to touch, but beside him nonetheless. When Dean has gotten himself under control enough to look up, he wordlessly hands him a fresh cup. This tea smells a lot earthier than the freshness of lemongrass slowly dissipating into the general green scent of the greenhouses.

Dean has really been enough of a dick to a guy who only wants to help, so he accepts the cup and takes a careful sip.

And feels himself settle almost immediately. It tastes warm and comforting, and coats his upset stomach like a balm. He puts the cup to his lips again.

“It’s a mixture of my family’s best-cultivated herbs and honey,” Castiel explains. “The honey is from my bees.” His voice is quiet, as soothing as Pala’s soft crow noises. It lacks any condescension or judgement.

Dean drinks some more, takes a deep breath that no longer sounds shaky, and says, “It’s good.”

It’s very good. It’s exactly what he needed.

“Here, I brought you a sandwich as well.”

Castiel gives it to him and their hands brush for a moment.

“Thank you, Cas.”

It tastes good, even if there isn’t any healing magic involved. Rye toast, still a little warm, with two slices of ham and a crunchy leaf of lettuce he probably would have plucked off if he’d bought it. As it is, he enjoys the texture, and his stomach seems grateful for something solid.

He finishes both the sandwich and the tea in silence, both he and Cas comfortably staring into nothingness. When he puts the cup down, he breathes out, then wants to say something, but Castiel interrupts him. Gently. 

“Please, don’t apologize. I understand bad nights.”

Dean swallows once, twice, but for now, he no longer tastes any of the grief.

“Okay.”

There is really no time for them to do any of the work planned, but it really doesn’t feel like wasted time, either. “I would like to come by again this evening, if that’s alright with you,” Castiel says as he gets up to leave. His hair is still a little wet from the rain and Dean doesn’t know if he wants to kiss him or just run his hands through it.

“Yeah, I’d like that,” he says, and his voice still sounds rough, but no longer carries any hint of aggression.

Castiel smiles and behind him, the rising sun breaks through the clouds.

 

_ But the gods, by their nature, did not know moderation. _

_ Humanity, by theirs, did not know humility. _

_ And so the gods watched as power devoured power, and wars ravaged the earth. The most powerful amongst humankind could not sustain their rule, could not contain their magic. They were consumed by it. _

_ The gods retreated, after this. _

_ And yet their gifts remained. Weakened. Mixed. Became stronger again, sometimes. Passed down generation after generation, for mankind was not made to last. _

_ And humanity, as was their birthright, adapted. _


	3. Chapter 3

The rest of the day is… surprisingly mellow. At ten, Kevin shows up to take care of customer service, so he doesn’t need to put on a grin when he doesn’t feel it, but honestly, he might even have been able to handle it.

Instead, he does what he does best, which is take care of his plants.

When he became a gardener, he didn’t expect it to be quite as much work as it turned out to be. The truth is, in this profession, there are no days off. The likelihood that someone is going to call you in the middle of the night to tell you something terrible has happened is low, but other than that, a lot can and will go wrong.

Carefully hatched saplings won’t take; there will be surprise bug infestations that are almost impossible to control even with the help of a hungry crow; too many plants will need to be repotted at once, since there are some unforeseen growth spurts.

The worst thing to happen in the year and a half since he started this business was when the water pipes just suddenly ran dry and it took them two days to fix it. As good gardeners must, he managed. After buying the lot, one of the first things he did was install a drawdown well in the backyard where he raises some of the trees. Still, there are things decidedly more fun than pumping up enough water to take care of two large and three small greenhouses by hand. Even with the help of probably the greatest feat of magic he has ever managed – making the water rise through the ground quicker – the sheer physical exhaustion at the end of the day was unlike any he’d ever experienced.

But at least he’d been too busy to think, and too at the end of his capabilities to dream.

Today, there are no minor or major emergencies, there is simply the work that has to be done. And despite how the day began, Dean continues to feel quite at peace amidst the green and the white blossoms of the Rhodos hyacinths he tends to for two hours.

Castiel really must be very, very good at his job.

During lunch break, he’s tempted to go over there, but he doesn’t want to force his presence on the poor guy. Instead, he gets some Chinese food and shares it with Kevin, who’s reading some stuff way more advanced than a regular high school student. They don’t talk much, but that’s one of the good things about the kind of help he hired. They’re both perfectly content to do their own thing. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he watches the comings and goings of customers to the shop across the street. There aren’t too many, but there aren’t none, so that’s probably good. He wonders what a packet of that tea Cas made him this morning actually costs, not to mention the honey made by bees in constant contact with blossoms raised by a powerful herbalist.

At the end of the day, he says the usual gruff goodbye to Kevin, beckons Pala back into the greenhouse – she likes to fly around during the afternoon, and obviously deemed Dean stable enough again to do so – and puts his tools away.

There is still some left-over Chinese, and even though it feels a little shabby compared to the wholesome breakfast Cas made him this morning, he puts it out on plates and feels a little better for it. He doesn’t have any tea – usually, it’s something he very much boycotts, even despite his profession – but he drew up some good, clean water from the well and enriched it with clear crystals. They’re nothing special, their powers not even going in a certain direction, but they purify the water, and make you feel cleaner and more refreshed for drinking it as well.

Overall, this is taking on the rather disturbing feeling of preparing for a date, which he isn’t sure he could handle no matter how attractive Castiel might be, but at least he keeps the candle unlit.

Shortly after eight, the lights in the windows of the old house dim, and only a few minutes afterwards, Castiel emerges. Dean watches him lock the door behind him - did he do that this morning, too? - then amble across the street. He waves when he sees Dean, a single brief raise of a hand in greeting that Dean finds oddly endearing. His heart is beating kind of loudly, and Dean has to focus to stop hearing in it the echo of a different time.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says when Dean closes the door behind them. He has brought an entire pot of tea this time, and it smells different yet again. A little flowery – rose hip, maybe? – but with fresh orange and mint notes in it as well. Calming, but conductive to good working conditions and a sharp mind, Dean translates as he waves Cas through to the counter where he has set up the food. He thinks he smells more of that honey as well.

“I didn’t know if you were hungry, but here’s a little something.”

Cas hums appreciatively and sets the pot down on the folded towel Dean produces from somewhere.

“That’s very thoughtful of you, Dean. Would you mind if I heated it up a little?”

“I was hoping you could.”

For the first time, Dean realizes Castiel’s robes have pockets in them; surprisingly practical considering their price. With sure fingers, he pulls out a matchbook and strikes a quick flame. So much for not lighting any candles.

“Can you keep the moisture in the food, Dean?”

Dean nods, pours a little of the water into a bowl, sprinkles a small amount over the food, and dips his fingers into the bowl. His other hand, he holds over the food as Castiel touches the plate. One by one, they begin steaming pleasantly, the scent mixing with that of the decorative flowers and the tea. It’s the smell equivalent of cacophony, almost, but he kind of likes it.

It’s nice working in tandem with Cas. When they settle down side on opposite sides of the counter to begin eating, he’s trying not to think about how he’d like to do that more often.

“You have pockets,” he remarks somewhat idiotically.

Castiel, who has poured himself some tea, looks up, smiles, and simply says, “Of course, Dean. I do work in these clothes. Would you care for some tea as well?”

“Yeah, that’d be great, thanks. I just mean, that’s some expensive rune work. I didn’t think they made work clothes with this kind of magic stitched in.”

“There are quite a few tailors who specialize in practical robes. But you’re right, mine were made especially for me. My sister Anna has a quite successful boutique in Milan that specializes in tailoring runes and fabric in a way that works perfectly for the desired purpose.”

“Milan, Texas?”

“Italy.”

“Huh. Say, Cas, is it possible your family is kind of rich?”

Castiel looks up as if startled by the question, but the look of astonishment is quickly replaced by a wide and twinkly grin that makes zero sense and Dean’s pulse flutter.

“It’s possible,” he concedes.

The tea is delicious and once more kind of exactly what Dean didn’t know he needed. He feels he might need to reevaluate his opinions on teas entirely and Castiel’s in particular.

“What’s that woodsy taste?”

“White willow bark.”

Something to relieve pain.

“It’s good.”

* * *

Later, they’re walking through the greenhouses, Castiel with his eyes wide open and his hand brushing this plant and that plant, all of them almost stretching for him to reach them better. One particular little hyacinth immediately breaks into full bloom, and Castiel gives it a very warm smile and strokes his finger lightly over the white blossoms.

At least Dean knows what to give Cas for his troubles now.

They don’t speak much, and surprisingly, Dean doesn’t feel even remotely judged. Maybe the tea helped, or maybe it’s just that Cas very clearly isn’t the type to look down on anyone. It feels comfortable, and the few questions Cas asks are clearly born of genuine curiosity about the way Dean works.

There are a few plants Cas detects burgeoning illness in, which Dean puts aside on a flower bed especially prepared for patients, but to their shared relieve, there aren’t many, and only two Cas has to deem beyond their help. It’s a whole lot better than Dean expected.

“Would you mind if I took them with me?”, Cas asks with a small gesture at the lost causes. “For the window?”

And it makes Dean feel so damn warm inside it probably rivals the heat of Cas’ shop. He quickly hurries back to fetch the little hyacinth and says, “Only if you take this little guy off my hands, too.”

The smile he gets for that is even better than the miracle tea.

* * *

Dean helps Castiel carry the plants and Cas’ teapot back to the shop. There are still some embers of the fire left, and Castiel almost immediately brings it back to life, even though it’s still plenty warm in the room.

“Aren’t you going home for the night?” he asks and Castiel blinks at him for a moment. “Oh,” he says, “I live here. I have a small apartment upstairs.”

It makes sense. Dean wonders if Cas sleeps in the spire like some fairy tale princess.

“So why relight the fire? Just for the greenhouse?”

“No, I usually spend most of the evening brewing potions and there is one I have yet to finish.”

Startled, Dean looks up.

“Shit, man, did I keep you from your work?”

Castiel shakes his head, that wonderful gentle smile once more softening his features.

“You didn’t keep me from anything. If at all, this was one of the most pleasant evenings I’ve had in a long time.”

“Oh.” It is possible Dean blushes. He desperately hopes it’s dark enough to hide it. “Oh good. I mean, me too. The entire day, really. I don’t normally have days that good when they start off-… Well, you know.”

“I understand. Dean,” he says, hesitant suddenly, a little shy, “I was wondering if I could give you a packet of the tea I gave you this morning. Just so you have something in case you ever need it.”

Dean swallows down the urge to deny, refuse, get angry. It takes a moment. 

“I’m not gonna lie, man,” he says eventually. “That stuff really saved me this morning. Just not sure I can afford it. I mean, your shop seems kind of high-end.”

Castiel, who has kept his face carefully averted while letting Dean sort through his feelings, snaps his head around to look at Dean fully. “Oh no! No, it would be a gift, Dean, obviously.”

Embarrassed from both the offer and the open gaze, Dean watches his feet shift his weight.

“Come on,” he hedges and clears his throat, “how much more am I supposed to owe you? I trample in here and yell at you about plants, then I yell at you this morning again, and all you do is smile and calm me down, I mean-…”

“If you feel uncomfortable with the idea of taking it for free, how would you feel about establishing a trade?”

Dean looks back up.

“What do you mean?”

Castiel’s shoulders move up and down in one controlled breath that Dean interprets to be actual nerves. His eyes are searching Dean’s, and it would almost be enough to distract from the carefully chosen words.

“I raise most of my plants from seed or bulb, but it takes a lot of time until they are grown enough for me to be able to use their components, and as you’ve probably noticed, my greenhouse is rather crowded. I believe our respective magical abilities work well together.” It is a fact Dean has noted as well.

“If you agree to this plan,” Castiel continues, “I would regularly come visit your greenhouses and help nurture your plants. I would make sure to inform you which ones are getting sick, and help you tend to them. I would also grow a few plants for myself there, which I would transfer once usable.”

Clearly, he’s thought about this. Still, it doesn’t sit quite right with Dean.

“Dude, that sounds amazing, but those are almost exclusively things that are good for me. Not exactly a balanced transaction, especially not if you keep giving me expensive remedies.”

At that, Castiel actually perks up, as if he hadn’t dared propose the second part of his plan before.

“If you’d like, you could also help me take care of my own plants. As I’ve mentioned, I have very little understanding of neither water nor soil, and I feel I could yield much better results, not to mention healthier plants, if you were to get involved in the process of raising them.”

“Shared custody, huh?”

It’s a stupid joke, automatically made, but already, Dean feels his eyes grow wet again. He shakes it off at Cas’ concerned look.

“Sorry. Sorry, that was dumb.” He takes a deep breath and nods. “It sounds like a good plan. I mean, I really don’t see any downside, except maybe some time management issues, but I’m sure we can work those out.”

“Good.” Castiel actually sounds relieved, now. “Very good. Now please allow me to give you this.”

He has the small care package prepared already, and now Dean is completely sure Cas didn’t just make this up on the spot. Still, it’s sweet, and under the conditions set, it doesn’t feel too much like charity. A large package of the tea, out of clear consideration without the label ‘A Relief for Sorrow’ or whatever else he would probably call it when selling to a customer. Also, a jar of honey.

He makes himself accept it, if only because he genuinely needs it.

“If it makes you feel any better, friends usually get reduced rates anyway.”

He just sort of gulps down a knot of emotion, and walks to the door.

Before leaving the house, he turns around for a moment, takes in Castiel, standing in the glow of his too-hot fire, with his specially made practical robes and those kind, brilliant eyes.

“You’re a damn good friend, Cas.”

 

_ There was one god of old who did not remember the glory of creation. _

_ When the other gods learned of his existence, they proclaimed him the overslept, the invisible god, as he had missed the grand act and awoken fully formed, many millions of years after the others. _

_ He awoke very late. _

_ He awoke late enough that humankind had not only invented the wheel, but created race-tracks and betting money. Humanity, though still young, had matured and learned to use the randomly distributed powers given by the gods of old to the detriment of others.  _

_ He learned who he truly was, then: He was a god of augmenting and decreasing: a god of balance.  _

_ And he wanted nothing more than to share his gifts with the miraculous humans. To make them better. To prevent the inequality of those in power oppressing those without. _

_ And so he walked among them, and gave where he saw fit, took away from what he deemed abundant. _

 


	4. Chapter 4

After a thankfully dreamless night, Dean wakes up feeling better rested than he has in a while. He actually puts on some music while he prepares breakfast, and Pala hops around him, true to the rhythm and obviously delighted. She even neglects her own breakfast for the sake of taking swooping turns across the room and she even rolls in the air twice. Dean himself is flying a lot higher than he is used to, so he just packs her food in a little bag – she’ll get cranky later – and enjoys it.

He doesn’t need the grief tea today, but he opens up the jar of honey. It’s not usually his thing, but the color alone is enough to entice him this morning. As is the lingering feeling of contentment he guesses to be its main effect.

He doesn’t spread a lot of it over the butter – he has no intention of running out any time soon – but it still glistens cheerfully, and the taste is like sunshine and herbs and Castiel’s smile.

He keeps the radio on while he drives to work, riding high on for once feeling like he has something to look forward to. When he passes the old house, he sees his two sick plants in Castiel’s display, waiting for the sunlight and people to admire them. He also sees a little white hyacinth looking out a window on the upper floor.

Kevin is actually kind of disturbed by how real his grin is the entire day.

* * *

What Dean realizes after two more days of not actually seeing Castiel, is that they never did figure out a schedule, or even a next time to meet up. He’s just sort of operated under the assumption Cas would show up, maybe carrying some tea, and they’d talk it out. But maybe Cas thought the same thing about Dean, so Dean buys croissants and, six minutes into his lunch break on the fourth day, walks over to the old house.

Standing in front of that door and hesitating about going in feels different now. Rather than being sick with guilt, it is a lot more more like watching Pala fake falling out of the sky (which she does probably in the full knowledge that Dean is absolutely terrified of heights).

She has accompanied him on his way over here, and landed on the old tree that is as part of the house as the masonry. More branches than not seem to be dead and gone, shriveled up, the lifeless bark peeled off by the elements in places, but there are still a few twigs carrying the bright green buds of early spring leaves. Pala caws once, loudly, then takes off again, only to round up on the tree and caw at it, before flying off.

Dean takes heart and pushes open the door. The melody the chimes play immediately tells him something isn’t right. It’s barely even a melody at all, just bells clanging thinly, out of order, never forming a harmony.

“Cas, you there?” he yells into the seemingly empty shop. It’s even hotter than he remembers, the dim glow of the fire almost the sole source of light today since the outside world is dark with heavy clouds.

“I’m over here, Dean,” he hears, and it sounds weak, somehow. The words carefully articulated, but without any strength behind them. He follows it to find Castiel sitting next to the roaring fire, huddled into the thick robe Dean remembers from the first time he came here. He looks terrible. The bags under his eyes are far more pronounced than Dean has ever seen them, and his eyelids seem heavy as well.

He doesn’t move when he sees Dean, but his lips do twist into a tired smile.

“I brought croissants,” Dean dumbly says and holds up the bag.

“I love croissants. Please, sit down.”

He seems to barely be able to lift his arm, but gestures towards the other chair facing the fire. There is a small cauldron bubbling over it.

Dean shrugs out of two layers of clothing and sits down. It’s really, really fucking hot, but Cas actually seems to be shivering. “Fuck, Cas, you okay, man?”

Castiel turns to him with a slow, regretful smile. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come by, Dean. I was indisposed.”

It’s an understatement if ever Dean heard one.

“You still look pretty damn indisposed. Why the hell aren’t you in bed?”

“There is work to be done,” Castiel says patiently. “Right now, I’m reducing a tincture to a powder.”

“And you need to do that right now? Can’t your customers wait?”

Dean has the feeling Castiel would shrug if he had the energy for it.

“The email said ‘urgent’.”

And Dean is honestly so thrown by that for a moment that he forgets what they’re actually talking about. “You get emails?”

If there was one thing he would not put into the same sentence, it’d be traditional magic and the internet.

But Cas says it as if it were obvious. “Of course, Dean. Most of my business is conducted online. I have a website and everything.” Huh. So the customers Dean sees visit the shops are far from the only ones. That certainly explains that the shop is still open at all.

Dean shakes off the derailment of thoughts.

“Why are you even sick? Don’t you have cure-alls?”

And Castiel looks away. 

“Oh, I’ve found they don’t work very much when I’m the one taking them. It’s ironic, but quite all right, Dean. Please don’t worry, I’ll be better soon.”

His tone is almost suspiciously casual. Something in Dean twists. He changes the subject.

“Have you even been able to take care of your greenhouse like this? I mean, no offense, man, but you can barely move.”

“I’ve-… managed.”

Clearly at the cost of his recuperation. Dean almost tuts at him like some well-meaning aunt. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do,” he says. “Next time, you call me.” Castiel looks like he wants to interject, so Dean barrels on. “We’re business partners. And friends. Friends don’t let other friends do gardening when they obviously have a fever.” Cas’ lips twitch. “Now, have you been out there today?”

“I’m afraid not yet.” 

“Okay, so how about we sit your ass down inside that greenhouse – maybe get you another blanket or something, because seriously, man, how can you still be cold – and you tell me what to do.” He gets  up. “And not just the bare bones, dude,  _ everything _ that needs to get done.”

Castiel lets him finish his rant with a smile. He waits a few moments after Dean is done and looking at him expectantly, then he remarks, “Can I have a croissant first? I can’t leave the room until my reduction has stopped being liquid.”

Dean awkwardly sits back down.

“Ah shit, of course.”

He pulls one of the croissants out of the bag, and hands it to Castiel, mindful of how it’s actually dripping some of its chocolate fillings on one end because of how hot the room is.

“Mhmm, instant oven-fresh!” Dean wiggles his eyebrows when Castiel has taken the croissant off his hands, and Castiel huffs a short laugh that then gets muffled around the tip of the croissant.

And Dean is having seriously inappropriate thoughts about a sick friend, so he quickly looks elsewhere and asks, “Have you had enough water today? I feel like I’ve lost a liter in the last minute alone.”

“Please don’t pee on my chair, Dean.”

And that’s such an unexpected piece of prime humor that Dean is still choking back laughter a good two minutes later.

“No, but really,” he tries to get back to being serious, “Have you had water? Or tea?”

“Some tea.”

Dean shakes his head in disapproval.

“Not enough, Cas. Where’s your kitchen? Or sink with glasses or whatever?”

“Second aisle to the right and straight on till morning,” Castiel says with a hint of a smile.

Dean gets up again, this time with proper purpose. “Okay,” he proclaims, “I hope you don’t mind my poking around in there, but you’re not gonna get any better if you don’t keep hydrated. And that’s not just the water mage in me talking.”

It’s not a kitchen, exactly, mostly just a sink at least a century old and a cabinet where he finds some glasses. He pours himself one and downs it in one go – because seriously, the air in here is paper dry, even despite the evaporation of the tincture.

It’s not particularly great water, he notes, and grimaces. He finds a larger pitcher – probably real silver, but hey, that’s magically inert enough – and fills it to the brim with water. Then he thoroughly washes his hands and puts two fingers on the smooth surface of the water.

He can’t do much to improve the quality – he definitely needs to bring over some of his crystal water and talk Cas into replacing the pipes, because that shit can’t be healthy – but he feels for the harmful substances within it and makes them sink to the bottom of the pitcher. He also mutters one of the more difficult water purification spells he learned at college. It’s a bit of a miracle he can even remember it; he’s so used to working with minerals instead.

He carefully pours some of the water into his own glass, disturbing the sediments on the bottom as little as he can, and tastes it. Still not great, but definitely better. Pouring Cas’ glass, he’s even more careful.

When he walks past the window, he gets a brief look at Pala, who apparently came back to finish her verbal fight with the tree.

“Listen, I worked on this water a bit,” he explains as he hands it to Cas, “but your pipes are shit. Drink up.”

Castiel rolls his eyes, but at least slowly sips on the water until half the glass is gone. Good enough. There is no sign left of the croissant, Dean notices, and decides to leave the one he was supposed to eat for Cas as well.

When there is nothing but a fine crust of powder at the bottom of the cauldron, Dean insists on taking it off the fire himself. Castiel grumbles and pointedly forces his muscles to cooperate long enough to demonstrate to Dean that he could, indeed, do it if he had to (he stands up and fetches the cauldron stand).

Still, it’s a pretty damn heavy thing and Dean is grateful he didn’t let Cas do it. Who knows, he might have dropped it and given himself third degree burns. Though his robes are probably mostly burn-resistant, at least if Dean interprets a row of runes making up the seam of Cas’ left shoulder correctly.

“It just needs to cool now before I can work with it,” Castiel tells him.

Dean frowns. “How much more do you need to do with it anyway? Looks like a pretty good powder to me, at least once it’s scraped out of there.”

Cas smiles indulgently. “It’s not supposed to be a powder, but a solution.”

“What?”

“It was an alcoholic tincture, and the person requesting it has an alcohol problem. Besides, there are three more components missing.”

“Oh.”

“Come on now, Dean. I suppose I can’t discourage you from helping me, but we should at least do it before your break is up.”

Castiel is walking without wobble or hesitation, but Dean can tell it’s nothing but discipline, because for the first time since he’s met him, sweat begins to bead on his forehead.

He opens up the door to the greenhouse for Cas and even as his own skin screams in relief at the slightly cooler air, he worries for Cas, who immediately starts shivering.

“Dean,” he says, and now Dean can hear the strain again, “If you could-…” He gestures at a wrought-iron rocking chair and Dean positions it at an angle that will allow Cas to observe him effectively. But when Castiel makes to sit down, he stops him with a “Whoa, whoa, hold on a minute; that thing isn’t exactly warm and comfy. Do you have any blankets anywhere?”

Cas smiles a thin smile and points at a wooden chest on the other side of the room. “I suppose I should rearrange some things here,” he says, and it sounds rueful in a way that makes Dean very, very uncomfortable. His knuckles are white against the chair and Dean looks away and goes over to the chest instead.

There’s a quilt in there, surprisingly homey. It’s made of squares of cotton, with each of them depicting an animal. Some of the patches look very old, but the stitch work is solid, and it looks warm.

He half puts it over the chair, then beckons Cas to sit down, then tucks the other half of it around him.

“I’m not a child, Dean.”

It hits like a hammer to the head.

Dean stumbles back, head spinning and dizzy suddenly.

“Right,” he forces out and tries to stop his hands from shaking. “Sorry.”

“Dean?”

He turns away to hide his overflowing eyes and fetches some water from the tab in another large bowl.

“Hey where is your familiar anyway?”

He doesn’t get an answer, and if he were any less upset at the moment, he probably would have stopped talking, but, “You’re pretty fucking sick and they’re not there to take care of you, which is just bullshit. I mean, when I’m hurting, Pala is all over me and it’s annoying, but it beats going through it alone, you know?”

He still doesn’t get an answer and finally stops fiddling with the tap. Drops the bowls and falls forward to lean on the sink. “Shit.”

There’s an actual sob now, one clawing its way up from so deep Dean can’t keep it in, no matter how hard he tries. Distantly he hears the scrape of a chair, but it’s so far away compared to the rumbling of blood in his ears. Then there’s a hand on his shoulders.

“Dean.”

“They died, didn’t they? Your familiar.”

His voice is not steady, but Castiel’s is. 

“Yes.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

The hand tightens on his shoulder for a small moment.

“Please stop arguing with me every time I try to tell you I appreciate you caring about me at all.”

It’s the kindest reprehension Dean has ever gotten, so he laughs wetly and says,

“Okay, I’ll try.”

“Good.”

Wiping at his eyes, Dean turns around.

“Ah shit, man, I made you get up.”

“It’s okay, Dean.”

“And where’s your water, anyway?”

A sheepish look tells him all he needs to know, and he purses his lips and walks back into the shop.

The heat in there is enough to dry the rest of the excess moisture out of his eyes, leaving only salty crusts on his cheeks. They prickle uncomfortably, and he rubs them away with determination.

He fills up Cas’ water glass, brings it to him, and then, he gets to work, Cas’ soothing voice steadily guiding him on.

 

_ This angered the rest of the gods, who did not regard him as a brother. They had sworn to no longer interfere with humankind a long time ago, and yet loved to watch the remainders of their gifts and what joys and sorrows they wrought. _

_ They did not like that the invisible god did not adhere to their rules. They did not like that their gifts were tampered with. They did not like the boredom of balance. _

_ And so they gathered to hatch a plan to banish him. _

 


	5. Chapter 5

There is something to be said for having a friend around whom you can break down in tears, and who doesn’t ask you why that is. Who manages to somehow calm you, even without tea and honey, and even though his own current physical state and deceased familiar is the thing that triggered you in the first place.

After Ben’s death, Dean knew the only way he could go on with his life was if it didn’t much look like his old life anymore. Most of his belongings he gave away, and only took one box of Ben’s old toys and drawings and clothes, to be kept in a closet until the day when looking through it would be something he could handle. So far, this has not happened yet.

He has a new wallet, even, the old one unopened since he went out to get beer a week or so after the funeral and seeing his kid’s smiling face on the photo he kept in there rendered him a catatonic mess between the tooth care and shampoo aisles.

He couldn’t change his job, and to his relief, it was the one thing he never felt like he needed to get away from, or like it may hold too many memories. But he did need a change of scenery. So he accepted his brother’s financial support, and with it, got a loan big enough to start his own business in a different state, where it was a little bit warmer, and a little less flat, and a little less like the place he’d called home all his life.

He got a small apartment on the other side of the town, bought basic furniture, and set up the few things he brought with him. A couple of books. Some dishes, pans and pots. His dad’s record collection and the old record player his mom had bought him for his fourteenth birthday. Things he had before he was a father.

And poured all that was left of him into his market garden. All the magic, all the joy he was still capable of, all that was left of his broken heart.

The plan had been to start a whole new life here, maybe resume his old habits of cruising bars, maybe take up a new hobby. Make new friends who’d never know about the things that made him come here.

Maybe  _ heal _ , at some point.

Heal enough to be able to communicate with Lisa in more than just Christmas and birthday cards. To actually put up a photo of Ben somewhere in his apartment, and not want to throw himself in front of a train every time he looked at it.

What has happened so far, a year and a half after moving here, is that he’s actually too busy to do any of these things. Working at a market garden was one thing, but having the sole responsibility for all these plants, not to mention the financial aspects of this enterprise is really quite different.

And he loves it.

The work, the hardships, the endless hours that guarantee no time for grief. The plants themselves, and how he can raise them to the best of his abilities. Getting to experiment with his magic, and see its effects without having to ask any boss if that’s an okay way of spending his time, or begging them to sanction soil treatments not found in any textbook.

He hasn’t made very many friends, but he hired two helpers, Charlie and Kevin, to handle customer service and take care of the website. Kevin keeps to himself, surly teen with crazy intellect that he is, and Dean appreciates that a lot more than he probably should. Charlie, he actually considers a friend, and they’ve even shared a couple of beers after hours, talking about nerdy things that made him happy when he was her age. They still make him happy, and most of them don’t come with triggers.

He has bad nights, and sometimes he can barely function during the day. But every morning, he makes himself get up, if only because his plants need him to take care of them.

The only thing in the waking world he still can’t handle is feeling them die.

And children, on the rare occasion that they come to his shop.

Some days, he can handle selling a kid with wide, excited eyes a potted plant for their mom or dad or grandparent. Some days, it feels like reconnecting with his old self, because he was always kind of good with kids. Some days, he gets through it just fine. At least until they’ve left and he has to lock the bathroom door behind him as he dry-heaves.

Sickness, he didn’t think he’d ever have to deal with again. At least not up close.

But Cas is his friend. Cas is a damn good friend, considering they haven’t known each other for long.

And so he pushes through. He takes care of the plants in that odd, very crowded art nouveau greenhouse, to the best of his abilities and Cas’ gentle instructions. He scrapes the powder from the cauldron and into a small glass box, so that Cas can work with it more easily. He makes sure Cas finishes his glass of water before he has to go back to his own work, and later returns with specifically purified water, having even carved a few healing runes into the crystals at the bottom of the pitcher.

He pushes through, and at the end of the day, he drinks two cups of the grief tea with a generous amount of honey, and feels almost okay.

He feels even better two days later, when Castiel can walk without pain again. 

* * *

Castiel wasn’t lying when he said their magic would complement each other perfectly. Not only are his own plants thriving, and he has had very few cases of incurable illnesses since Castiel started inspecting them; he genuinely feels like he contributes a lot to Castiel’s work, too.

It’s fun, working with the kind of rare plants that just aren’t in demand from a simple gardener. He hasn’t done this much research since his exams, and it’s even better when he has gotten to know the plant’s official demands, and is starting to complement them with his own intuitions. In the process, he acquires a few crystals and stones he hasn’t worked with too often, and even finds them very helpful in previously thought perfected soil mixtures.

Both their greenhouses look amazing, and Castiel assures him the plants are “very happy, Dean.”

And amazingly, most of the time, so is he.

There are still nights that leave him shaking, sudden memories during the day that hurt so much he can’t breathe, but the tea and the honey help immensely, and so does looking forward to meeting Castiel.

It’s not just when they’re at the same workbench, hunched over a patient, Castiel slowly drying out the parasite while Dean keeps the plant’s circulatory system intact. It’s not just when he does his usual work around his own greenhouse, slyly watching Cas murmur to a plant, coaxing it to grow tall and broad and strong.

It’s all the little moments in between. The lunch breaks Dean sometimes spends in Cas’ crazy hot shop, bringing them both something fattening and tasty that Castiel eventually begins countering with salads Dean pretends not to like but always eats. The simple, strengthening teas shared in the quiet of the morning, watching the sun rise.

It’s seeing that little hyacinth in the window, always happy to greet the new day.

Having a friend.

* * *

Dean failed potion making both times he took the exam. It’s a little ridiculous, considering even then he knew a lot about plants and had basic water manipulation abilities, but it just wasn’t his thing. He’d get distracted during a crucial moment, or couldn’t resist improvising only to realize his intuition on crystals might be good, but on this, it really wasn’t.

But he likes watching Castiel work.

It’s different than when he’s taking care of plants, which is peaceful warmth and tender smiles. Potion maker Cas is very focused, his jawline hard in the light of either an actual fire or the myriad of candles he puts up when he works inside.

He looks powerful like this, hunched over cauldrons or weighing ingredients, and it always humbles Dean a little that he just gets to hang out and keep him company when he’s involved in processes so delicate, and resulting in powders, poultices, tears and tinctures so expensive Dean’s head spun when he surreptitiously checked out Castiel’s website.

Today, he’s mixing a comparatively simple potion that’s supposed to enhance the experience of performance art, like visiting theaters or going to concerts. The ingredients aren’t as expensive as some of the ones he uses, though equally homegrown for the most part, and most of the time is spent waiting until the next stage can be tackled. To be honest, the whole thing sounds a little hallucinogenic to Dean, but Castiel assures him he’s working strictly within the realm of the legal.

“It’s not dangerous, Dean, and it only works while watching performance art. The second you step outside the venue to drive home or get a burger, the effect is gone.”

“But what about ‘All the world’s a stage’?”

It was supposed to be a dumb joke, the kind that makes his eyes go so adorably crinkly sometimes, but Castiel actually seems to consider it.

“The way I see it, it’s very much in the eye of the beholder. I suppose if you really focus on the world around you and try to experience it as art, it might work. But you’d have to get very immersed in it.”

They sit in comfortable silence for a while, before Dean notices Castiel doesn’t seem all that relaxed, really, shifting from side to side on his chair, eyes looking into the fire, but clearly not even seeing anything.

“What’s the matter, Cas? Bees in your bonnet?”

“Huh? Oh no, Dean, it’s not bees, it’s-… Feel free not to answer this question, but I was wondering how often you use the tea I gave you.”

And just like that, Dean is a little tenser.

“Uhm, not overly often. Not more than three times a week, I think. And that’s a pretty bad week.”

He tugs on an ear and also looks into the fire.

“Is it still-… helpful?”

“Yeah. Yeah, Cas, it helps.”

“Good. Good, I’m glad.”

From the way he says the words Dean can tell he is gearing up for a different question. When he remains quiet, however, eyes broody and unfathomable in the light of the dancing flames, Dean is the one to break the silence. 

“Why did you want to know?”

And as though he’s only been waiting for it,  “It’s just-… It’s a powerful mixture, Dean. Seeing as we were speaking of legality, it’s not the kind of tea I’m actually allowed to dispense without a prescription.”

Dean feels his jaw clench and crosses his arms in front of his chest. He should have known to keep his mouth shut. 

“I’m not going to a damn shrink, Cas.”

But Cas doesn’t engage in Dean’s hostility. Instead, he’s as mild as ever. “I assumed so. I have no issues with aiding you this way, even without doctor’s orders. What I did want to talk to you about are the side-effects.”

Marginally, Dean allows himself to settle. 

“I haven’t had any.”

“Not those kind of side-effects. It’s the grief.”

It’s the first time Castiel has named it what it is, and it startles Dean into looking at Cas. The fire is still flickering behind his eyes, turning portions of Cas’ face white.

“What about it?”

“What this mixture does, is… replace it with different emotions. Though replace is the wrong term for it.” He thinks for a moment. “You see, what happens is, the anger you feel, the sorrow and the pain, they aren’t driven out of you, but merely… blanketed, if you will, by different ones. Strong ones. They are yours, but they ones evoked are very specifically tailored emotions that feel like the natural procession of grief, like what happens when it eases.”

Dean has noticed that. Drinking the tea is like reaching a stage completely unavailable to him, something years in the future, when thinking about Ben no longer rips open every carefully placed stitch holding him together.

He only nods. He thinks he knows what comes now.

“But all the original emotions, they don’t go away. And you’ll need more and more of the tea in order to keep covering them with good things, the longer you take it. Now, I’m not suggesting you stop using the mixture entirely, because I think your quality of life has increased some, if I’m not mistaken.” It has. It desperately has. “But in between, sometimes, you will need to let it overwhelm you. Truly, actually grieve. And those emotions might even be stronger for having suppressed them for so long. But it’s the only way to ensure you don’t just push it down while growing further and further addicted to a very strong mixture. I have-…”, he pauses, shortly, and his nervousness visibly increases, even as Dean keeps staring at him blankly.

“I have another potion I would like for you to take. One that enhances all the pain inside you, for a short amount of time.”

Dean doesn’t say anything for a long time. Truthfully, it’s hard to keep himself on this chair and not walking out, but he knows Castiel means well. He knows that. 

“Are you going to refuse to give me more tea if I don’t want to do that?” he asks finally and Cas immediately shakes his head. 

“No, Dean. It’s your choice entirely. But I’d feel better for it.”

“Can I think about it?”

“Of course. I strongly encourage you to do so. Should you choose to do it, it will be a very difficult day for you indeed. Maybe one of the worst you’ve had. And it’s not one you should spend alone. But I genuinely believe it will help you more than relying on the tea alone.”

“I need to get back to my greenhouses, Cas, if that’s okay with you.”

“Yes, Dean. Of course, please do.”

And Dean knows Cas is right, completely so, because the first thing he wants to do is have tea.

He doesn’t do it, but the darkness threatening to pull him under for resisting the urge is enough to make him feel like he probably wouldn’t even need that other potion, if he ever really let himself feel it all.

* * *    

Castiel doesn’t approach the subject again, and it takes a week for Dean to get over himself enough to do so himself.

They’re out in his garden, and Castiel is coaxing a stubborn little apple tree into bloom. It’s Dean’s favorite version of Cas, bathed in the intense orange of a setting sun, the contrast making both the yellow rune work on his robes and his eyes sparkle especially vividly.

“Don’t think I’ve seen those kinds of runes before,” he says, arms crossed and leaning against one of the taller trees that doesn’t need encouragement to open its small white blossoms.

“Anna designed them herself.” Castiel’s sister, he remembers. “She’s quite gifted at finding or rediscovering runes not in conventional use, and she’s even more excellent at weaving them together in a way that yields spectacular results. These are to protect against the wrath of insects in general, and to ward against bee stings in particular. My bees like me well enough, but I figure a little extra benevolence can hardly do any harm.”

Dean runs a hand over the bark of the tree. Unlike Castiel, he can feel nothing from the plant this way, but the texture is nice. 

“Your family sounds-… intensely powerful. I mean, that’s not something any ol’ rune mage can do. And your potion skills are kind of extraordinary, too.”

Castiel nods thoughtfully. 

“I can’t deny we are gifted. Though it has its downfalls, of course. Family members less sensitive to the magical arts have a difficult standing and are considered a disappointment.” His brow furrows. “I don’t approve of this treatment.”

Dean shrugs.  “Well, you’re a good guy, Cas.”

There is a lull in the conversation as the blossoms slowly start to open under Castiel’s hands. 

“Cas,” he says before he can even think about it, “not to give you ideas, but I was wondering what you’re doing here. I mean, not here, specifically, in my garden, talking to my trees, but in that shop. A family with that kind of wealth and power, you could be anywhere in the world. A little closer to big magical centers, or at least somewhere people don’t have to drive out of their way to get to your shop.”

Castiel hums and lays his hand on the bark again to once more check the tree’s well-being. Finding the results obviously to his satisfaction, he pulls back and moves on to the next tree. Dean really likes watching him work. 

“The answer lies in the mansion,” he says eventually and Dean has to remind himself they were having a conversation. “I’m the only one living in it now, but it’s where we began. The truth is, I’m hardly the most talented mage within my family. We all have a propensity for potion making. But the combination with having herb tending skills established me as the next in line to keep the old family business alive. As I’ve mentioned, most of my potions go out by courier, but it’s tradition to be operate out of this house.” His smile turns a bit wistful. “And so it shall ever be. When I’m gone, my younger cousin will take over for me. Inias trains with me in the summer holidays, as he still goes to the academy. He’s shown the greatest inclination towards the relevant subjects out of all the younger ones. But it’s tradition we all work here for at least a month during our adolescence, if only to understand the vast history that comes with our name and trade.”

“Huh,” Dean says. “Bit different than how we do it.”

Cas is checking another tree now. 

“How does your family do it?” He asks. “I mean, how did you find your vocation?”

Dean shrugs. “It’s kind of what I’ve always wanted to do. Work with plants. My uncle had a garden when I was a kid, and I spent almost the entire time out there, raising this plant and that, figuring out what works best. The teachers wanted me to go more into exclusive mineral working, but it didn’t interest me all that much. So I became a gardener.” 

He kneels down to touch the soil at the root of the apple tree. He’s checked it before and it’s still fine. Reapplying the minerals can wait another week or so. 

“Good, solid job, no reason for the parents to worry about my income, even in the afterlife. And they both appreciated a person not afraid of working hard and physically. But my brother’s a really great wind mage and is also a whole lot better at water magic than I am. He actually works for the government now, on a really good salary, producing massive amounts of electricity with the help of those two elements.” Sam is also a really gifted seer, but Dean is pretty sure he’s still keeping that a secret. “I think he also fine-tunes machinery that they use, I’m not sure about that, though.”

“No obligations in your family,” Castiel summarizes quietly and with a smile, and for a moment, Dean allows himself to take pride in that. 

“We don’t have a fancy name, and there aren’t two people among us that have the same talents, so really, it’s all about finding what you’re good at and what you like doing.”

This tree appears to be doing alright as well, as Castiel takes a break from his work and merely leans against it to look at Dean. 

“I feel very blessed, sometimes, that I enjoy my work as well,” he says quietly. “I hardly think I would have had a choice to decline if it were otherwise, at least not if I still wished to be welcome to family functions. I fear Inias is less enthusiastic about the prospect. And I’m quite worried he’s not very good with my bees.”

Dean can feel the mood shifting and immediately breaks it. “Yeah, well,” he says quite loudly and gets up with an exaggerated yawn, “it’s still quite some time until you retire, Cas. I don’t think you need to worry about your bees yet.”

Castiel merely looks at him for a moment longer. 

“Right,” he eventually says. 

“So listen,” Dean continues, only knowing what he is going to say while he says it. “Uhm. I was thinking about what you said. About the-… about the grief and taking a day to really feel it? Might be a good idea. Even if I really don’t-…”  _ want to. _

“I know, Dean.”

For a while, they are quiet in the bright spring morning. 

Maybe it’s the fact that the world looks so far from harm right now, with bees buzzing about and a beautiful man taking care of healthy young trees that makes Dean ask something he is pretty sure he doesn’t actually want an answer to. 

“How did your familiar die?”

To his relief, it doesn’t seem to trigger anything in Castiel. Perhaps he has been expecting the question.

“She got sick,” he says simply. “It’s rare for a familiar to die before her mage, but she couldn’t be saved. I-… We all tried very hard to save her, but sometimes, death can be stopped by neither love nor healers.”

Dean looks away and swallows through his tight throat. “Yeah.”

In a most kind change of subject which isn’t actually a change in subject, Castiel returns to the now agreed-upon taking of that dreaded feel-everything potion. 

“Do you have a person you’d like to call to have with you on that day?”

Dean scratches the back of his head. “Actually, I was kinda hoping you’d do it.”

Castiel halts. 

“Me?”

“Well, yeah. You’re kind of my best friend. And I trust you.”

Instead of smiling, Cas’ brows draw closer together. 

“But Dean, I don’t think you understand how vulnerable this potion will make you.”

“Cas. There’s no one else. I mean, if you’re uncomfortable with it, I’ll call my brother, or Lisa, but I’d really much rather have you there.”

Castiel spends a long time thinking it through. So long, actually, that Dean is almost certain he’ll have to have a very uncomfortable conversation with Sam. Which he did not expect. And kind doesn’t want. They’re not exactly in contact. 

“It would be my honor,” Castiel says eventually, and with enough gravity that it only makes Dean feel worse. 

“Yeah,” he snorts,“nothing honorable about getting put on suicide watch duty.”

He turns away, but a fleeting hand on his shoulder gives him pause. 

“Simply watching over you will probably not be enough,” Cas says quietly. “I’ve seen the effects of the potion quite a few times, and you will need physical comfort as well. I hope this is-… We haven’t touched much, Dean.”

Incredulous, Dean turns around. 

“That’s what you’re worried about? That I might not want you to touch me?”

“It’s a concern, yes,” Cas says as though he actually has no clue Dean has been verging on the edge of being genuinely attracted to him for so long now. 

“That’s really not an issue for me,” he snorts. “Is it for you?”

“I don’t think so, no.”

“Hey. Uhm.” Dean’s heart skips about a little and wonders what the fuck he is doing. “How about we just try for a hug now, and see if that’s too weird?”

Once more, Castiel mulls it over. “I would be amenable,” he finally decides, and the continued solemnity almost makes Dean laugh. They’re talking about a hug, not getting married. 

“Amenable. Sure. Okay, dork.”

Without thinking about it further, Dean draws Cas into his arms. 

And realizes it actually is a bit much. To feel someone so close, after so long spent avoiding absolutely everyone. Let alone Cas, who is only marginally shorter than he is, and his insane body warmth even through the thick layers of cloth. Whose shoulders are broader than they look, and who smells like charred wood and honey. 

It’s much, and it’s doing complicated things to Dean, who is absolutely not prepared for this. 

It’s much, until Castiel relaxes. It’s not a large gesture, but from one moment to the other, he goes from slightly alarmed and unyielding to moulded perfectly to Dean’s upper body. One of his hands lightly brushes across Dean’s back and that unruly black hair is gently pressed to the slope of Dean’s temple. 

It’s nice. 

_ It’s nice. _

He has missed feeling like a person. Feeling another person. Not being just him. 

And Cas is a friend. Cas is his best friend. Cas is-... 

He lets out a shaky breath. “Okay,” he says, still holding Cas close, feeling them both breathe, warm and alive. “Okay, yeah, I don’t think touching is going to be a problem for me.”

“Yes, this is-…” briefly, Castiel’s arms tighten around him, “it’s rather nice.” At least he’s not the only one sounding a little choked up. 

“Yeah, it really is.”

He very, very much does not want to let go. But... 

“So,” Dean pulls back, very casually above his wildly beating heart, “Would Saturday work for you? I mean, I have a few things to take care of in the morning, but it’s probably best. I mean, with the right kind of preparation, I’ll even have most of Sunday off, too.”

“I’ll have the potion ready.”

 

_ Now it is a more difficult thing to banish a god than it is a human. There is no such thing as a godly realm; gods have the habit of being everywhere they choose to be, and everywhere they are called. _

_ And as no one knew of the invisible god and he was never called, he was always free.  _

_ The gods discussed this for many years. They laid trap over trap, but they could not contain the invisible god, could not even summon him. _

_ And so they remembered. _

_ Before the gods retreated, they could not communicate with all of humankind. There were few in the realms that saw them clearly, and the feats they accomplished would have been attributed to natural occurrences had it not been for them. _

_ Over the millennia, seers had not become rarer. It was not a power the gods had given, and therefore, did not follow the same rules. _

_ So they found a seer, in an unlikely place, and told her to call on the invisible god.  _


	6. Chapter 6

Unsurprisingly, Dean is on edge for the rest of the week.

It’s kind of strange, to be nervous about mourning when really, he’s been doing nothing but grieve since the day his son was diagnosed, but that’s what it is. He’s drinking too much of the tea, riding high on the artificial ease it brings, until he crashes down again. But every time he thinks of having to get through the day without it there to lift him up, he can barely function. So he knows Cas is right and this is very, very necessary, if only to disrupt the dependency.

But he remembers grief. How deep it cuts, how close it is to the surface at any given time.

The dreams have been steadily getting worse since Castiel first spoke of it, and Dean doesn’t know if it’s because now he has to think about it, or if it’s his mind compensating for peaceful days. He has woken up shaking for five days in a row by the time Saturday rolls around, and the mere thought of allowing himself to feel more of this, uninterrupted, without consolation, without work to distract him or honey to brighten his thoughts, almost has him packing his bags and running.

Unlike most mornings, Castiel is not waiting for him by the time he arrives at his greenhouse, but he did leave a still steaming cup of bergamot tea for Dean. It’s all so insanely considerate it grates on Dean’s nerves even more, but he wasn’t allowed to drink his grief tea this morning, and the bergamot helps him focus.

He’s glad Cas isn’t there, that he gets to perform the necessary tasks in quiet, brooding contemplation, without having to worry about maybe snapping at Cas for no good damn reason.

Then he thinks that enough of that may still happen this afternoon, that he may become the worst version of himself, the kind who lashes out at people who don’t deserve it. The kind that yelled at Lisa, because it wasn’t his genome that was killing their kid. There hadn’t been an apology in the world to make up for it, and it’s still one of the worst memories he carries around with himself. And even though Lisa had never blamed him for it, he knows it’s one of her worst memories as well.

The first few tasks, he does quickly and efficiently, in a blur of frenzied nerves. But the closer he gets to being finished for the day, the more he slows down. He finds himself just standing still for minutes at a time, petrified by the thought of having to face all of it, before he can make himself move again.

It takes much longer, in the end, for him to finish his work. But eventually, there isn’t anything pressing enough left to do, and he knows Cas is waiting.

“Okay,” he tells himself and takes a deep breath. “Okay.”

They agreed to have this session in Castiel’s flat. He explained Dean would need a safe space, and Dean declined doing it at his own apartment. He doesn’t want to be triggered by it every time he goes home.

It’s kind of stupid, that this is what he turns Cas’ living space into instead. Especially because he’s definitely thought about maybe someday being allowed up there for other reasons. But he wasn’t lying when he said he trusted Cas, and any space steeped in his presence seems like the best possible option.

He doesn’t pause in front of the door this time, knows he probably wouldn’t be able to bring himself to go inside if he did. The chimes over the door play such an inappropriately mournful melody it actually makes him bark out a short, but genuine laugh.

Cas springs up from behind the counter, and Dean is somewhat comforted by the fact that the guy seems no less nervous than Dean. He has a bit of an attractive blush going on, and glares at the bells. “I’m so sorry, Dean, I have no control over which melody they produce.”

“It’s fine, Cas. It’s actually kind of funny.”

His pained smile and the way he’s fidgeting with his overlong sleeve (purple runes this time, but Dean can’t make out what they are) and Dean has the sudden urge to hold his hand just to keep it still. It’s strange, but he feels better, if only for a little while.

“So. Upstairs?”

“I made us some sandwiches,” Cas babbles, leading the way up a narrow, winding staircase hidden behind some of the larger shelves.

“Yeah, good, I haven’t eaten much today.”

The climb up to Cas’ apartment isn’t a long one, but seeing the tiny door, he can’t help but wonder, “Say, Cas, no one in your family is fat, are they?”

Cas just looks at him as if perplexed by the question.

“There’s not a whole lot of space here.”

“Oh, I apologize. I like it this way, and I haven’t had a stone mage here in a while.” He narrows his eyes at Dean in contemplation, then says, “It would probably be easy for you to communicate to the house you need more space.”

“The house…  is sentient?”

“Of course it is, Dean. It’s very old, and many extraordinarily powerful mages have worked on it. Didn’t you feel it when you first entered?”

Dean thinks on it.  “I guess I felt something, but I thought it was just anger.”

“Yes, sometimes the house is angry as well.”

“Creepy place.”

“I wouldn’t call it that while stuck between its walls, Dean,” Cas says mildly, but with a twinkle in his eyes.

“Oh. Sure. Sorry, creepy sentient house.”

Cas huffs out a short laugh and Dean smiles, too, and then Cas opens up the door and steps through into sunlight.

Unsurprisingly, it’s still cluttered in here, but it’s not at all oppressive. There are many small tables, shelves, and cabinets housing all sorts of knick-knacks Dean immediately itches to touch. In a larger empty space, there’s an old, dark blue and decidedly comfortable looking couch facing a surprisingly normal small television set. A great deal of unlit candles and a large, empty fireplace remind Dean of something strange that hasn’t really registered with him before.

“Uhm, Cas, why was your shop so-… normal temperature today?”

“I figured you’d be more comfortable with less heat than I am used to. Your greenhouses are quite cool compared to mine, and you take off your shirt whenever you come here.”

“What about you? Aren’t you going to be cold?”

“No worries, Dean, I’ve taken precautions.”

“Oh. Thanks, then.”

He follows Cas to a table with two chairs in the space of the bay window whose ledge is also home to the hyacinth Dean gave him.

“Hello, little fellow,” Dean greets it, “you seem to be doing good, here.”

It’s cheesy, but it makes Cas smile that soft smile, so… mission accomplished.

There is a plate of sandwiches on the table, much the same as Cas brought him that first morning, and Dean finds he’s actually quite hungry.

“I thought about making us some peppermint tea,” Cas says, “but I imagine some of your crystal water might be more useful in this context.”

He brings over a full pitcher, and when Dean pours himself a glass, he’s delighted to taste Cas used the water from his greenhouse rather than from the downstairs sink, because it’s pure and refreshing.

Both he and Cas eat the sandwiches in silence, with appetite, but not without a growing trepidation, not to mention timidity. Dean looks out the window and finds that from here, you have a pretty great view of Dean’s entire grounds. Must be higher up than it looks from the outside.

There are still three sandwiches left when they are done, and Castiel puts them into the fridge. It’s an old thing, too, and Dean wonders if Cas just couldn’t be bothered to buy one that doesn’t hum quite as loudly, or if he just has a tender spot for things close to falling apart.

Den can see him take out a small vial of blue glass. The potion inside might be a colorless, but it looks denser for the tint of the glass. He lets it disappear into his robes before sitting down opposite of Dean again.

“So,” Dean breathes in deeply and clears his throat, “How are we going to do this?”

Castiel’s face grows carefully blank. He keeps the potion in his pocket for now.

“Grief takes different forms for different people, and so the best way of coping with it also varies. As far as I can judge based on what I know of you, you like to keep things bottled up, and you’d rather avoid speaking of them. So one option is for us to settle down on the couch, for you to take the potion, and for me to hold you while you weep in silence.”

Dean feels very uncomfortable at the notion and Castiel continues.

“It is not, however, what I would recommend. I think you’ve done a lot of weeping in silence already, alone or with others. I think what you need is to talk about the things that render you mute. Maybe yell, maybe scream, maybe rage, maybe cry, whatever stage you are at, wherever speaking of your pain takes you. I know you’re worried about hurting me, so let me begin by assuring you I am well-prepared for being a sounding board, if you will, for your anger, and you need not feel bad about whatever you say to me. I will be there for you, and still be your friend afterwards, and if I can, I will help you forgive yourself. I won’t offer condolences, because they are empty, no matter how heartfelt. I will ask you questions to coax you along. And I will hold your hand, if that’s alright with you.”  

“Yeah, that sounds,” Dean clears his throat, “that sounds okay.”

Castiel smiles, and for a moment, Dean allows himself to focus on that smile, and only that smile. It barely even is a smile, just something soft around his eyes. It’s good and it’s warm, whatever it is, and Dean really, really wishes they were just sitting opposite of each other at a small table overlooking his hyacinth and Dean’s greenhouses, their knees brushing, and about to hold hands, without agenda.

“Gimme that potion,” he declares, and his voice sounds rough already.

Cas pulls it out of his robes, puts it on the table.  Dean takes another few seconds to just look at it, at that innocent little vial. He wonders how expensive it is. If anyone even wants to buy liquid grief at all.

“Explain to me again how this is going to work? I drink this, and I get sad?”

“It’s not quite that simple. This kind of magic, it doesn’t create emotions. You can never create emotions. But it finds the sorrow inside of you, no matter how deeply buried, and it brings it to the surface, for better or for worse. From what I can tell, your grief is a many-layered thing, and you haven’t confronted it in a while, so I assume it will begin slow, and then unfold as it needs to.”

“Okay.”

Dean breathes out and takes up the vial. It’s surprisingly warm in between his fingers, and he briefly wonders if it’s something inherent to the potion itself, or just the remnants of Castiel’s robe. The stopper goes out easily, and without a sound. Dean pours it into his mouth and swallows before he can change his mind again.

Unlike everything else Castiel has given him, it doesn’t have a taste. He doesn’t even feel the prickle of alertness that usually comes with touching water.

Silent, colorless, tasteless. Without a hint of magic.

There’s no instantaneous effect.

He gives the empty vial back to Cas, who carefully stoppers it up again, and lets it disappear into his robe as if it’d never been there. Then, Cas lays his hands upon the table, palms up. He doesn’t look at Dean. Seems almost shy about it. It’s probably the only thing that makes Dean feel like it’s okay to take his hands.

It’s nice. They’re warm and so dry they feel a little cracked in places, and Dean lets himself just feel that for a while. The roughness of Cas’ hands. A fire mage, constantly working with heat. Probably burned himself, sometimes. At least there are a few too-smooth spots, too, and Dean’s fingers itch to explore them. His own hands are rough, too, because he works with minerals. Touches rough stones and tries their consistency, and works them into the soil. And when he doesn’t, he works with gardening tools. He has callouses, more pronounced that Cas’, maybe.

Eventually, Cas looks up from their joined hands, and Dean follows his gaze until they’re looking right at each other.

And maybe the potion is starting to work, but this feels very intimate, suddenly, and they haven’t even begun. 

“I think it would be best if you were to begin with who it is you lost.”

“Oh.” He laughs joylessly. “Guess I never told you, huh?”

It’s ridiculous, because he’s pretty sure Cas does know. Maybe not a name, maybe not the circumstances, but he knows.

“No.”

It’s easier to say it, because Cas already knows. But it still feels like forcing the words through sand stuck in his throat.

“My son. My son, Ben.”  

True to his word, Cas does not offer empty words. He squeezes his hands, once, almost too softly to notice, but he keeps looking at Dean with the exact same carefully neutral, judgement-free face. A sounding board, like he said.

“Tell me about him.”

And Dean can feel something now, something rising up and wanting to take his words away. He can’t talk about Ben yet, but he knows he has to make himself go there. 

“I was nineteen when Lisa got pregnant. We weren’t even together, and it was kind of both of our fault. Just a bendy week-end gone wrong. Too much fun and all. We’d exchanged numbers, said maybe we’d do it again sometimes, because why not? There was chemistry, but we weren’t looking for anything serious, neither of us. So when she called me up to meet again, I kind of expected things to go a little differently than they did.” 

He shrugs. 

“I wasn’t pissed or anything, though. I mean, maybe, a little. I don’t know. It wasn’t the worst news I’d ever gotten. And I hadn’t really thought about it, and definitely not planned it, but I did always want kids. And Lisa seemed reasonable, if nothing else. Pretty, too. We’d make a damn handsome son.”

And there’s the first real hitch to his breathing, and he has to pause. He’s the one tightening his grip on Cas’ hands now.

“How did your parents react?”

“They didn’t really get a chance to, they both died when I was fourteen.”

Cas looks genuinely startled at this revelation, and Dean is almost relieved he’s not prepared for everything Dean might say.

“Dean, I’m-…”

“Hey, you promised: no empty words. Besides, it was okay. I mean, not when it happened, obviously.”

“What did happen?”

“Drunk driver. And not even one you can rage at. Mom had too much wine, and Dad was too tired from working all day to notice she lost control of the car. She wasn’t even that drunk, not irresponsibly drunk, that’s not who she was. Just a little slower. Very clichéd, sudden bend in the road and a tree where there shouldn’t be one. Dad died on impact, Mom never woke up.”

Castiel nods thoughtfully. 

“How did you cope with it?”

“Not well.” Dean chuckles without much mirth. “Did a couple of stupid things and called them ‘living’. Like I said, it’s all a big cliché. Only got it back together because my brother was sort of breaking apart. Grades dropping, magic waning and all that. We had some family, and they helped, but it was really me and my brother who were left, so I had to stop self-destructing. And, you know. Honor their lives or whatever. They were good folk. Deserved better.”

He’s startled to find a tear dripping down onto the back of his hand.

“No worries, Cas. My parents’ death sucked, but it’s not something I pushed down and never dealt with. Don’t know why I’m crying. Just miss them, sometimes, I guess.”

“It isn’t selective of only one type of grief.”

Dean reaches up to wipe away the tears with the back of his hand, and Cas’ hand follows. It’s a little awkward, but for some reason, Dean really appreciates that he doesn’t let go.

“Anyway, don’t really know what they would have said about me getting a random girl pregnant. Probably would have sold her as my girlfriend or something. It’s not like it came at a bad time or anything. I wasn’t too far away from passing the last few exams, and then I was a gardener with a kid on the way. And Lisa was even working. She had this way of really understanding bodies, and specialized in dance therapy. Probably why she was so damn good at sex.”

This knot in his throat actually comes at a surprise. They haven’t been an item for a while.

“So it wasn’t that bad a time in either of our lives for a kid. I mean, her moms weren’t thrilled, but it was more about us not being in a committed relationship than anything else. They wanted grandkids, and even if we went about it a bit unconventionally, they could get over it. Never felt any real hostility, even later.”

“Did you move in together?”

“Yeah. I mean, it kind of seemed like the thing to do. We also started having hooking up again, because honestly, at this point, what harm could it do. We liked each other plenty. Didn’t really call it a relationship for a while, but that’s what it ended up being. We got married when Ben was two. By then we’d just sort of found out we were better together.”

“What ended your relationship?”

“We’re not at that part of the story yet, Cas.”

It’s a weak smile, and now it’s definitely wobbling.

“I apologize.”

“Let us have a few happy years, yeah? Just, just a few years.”

He’s probably squeezing Cas’ fingers too tight.

“Of course, Dean.”

“Because we were so happy. Like, crazy happy. I mean, have you ever been there when a baby gets born, Cas?”

He shakes his head.

“It’s amazing. So gross. But, you know, there’s this moment. I mean, it’s probably different for the moms, but like, you talk to a belly the entire time. And you love the belly and you have plans for the belly and you can feel the belly kick, but it’s just different when suddenly, there’s a baby, you know? And Ben was such an ugly baby. All crinkly and too much hair. And he didn’t cry very loudly, and he took forever to come out, but he was there, and we’d made him. That was us, combined, and now it was something else, something that would live a whole life-…”

He stops talking. Suddenly can’t talk anymore. Has pulled his hands out of Cas’ before he can even think. His voice is ice when he says, “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

And then, without warning, he’s sobbing. Just sobbing. Pain blubbering through him, choking him. He might be saying things like “What is happening”, even though he knows, and he might be saying “Make it stop”, even though he bat’s Cas’ hands away.

“Dean.” Cas’ voice is a far-away thing, even though he’s kneeling next to Dean, now. “Dean, take my hands. Please, Dean, I can’t help you unless you allow me to touch you.”

“Fuck you, Cas! You did this! I wouldn’t feel like this if you hadn’t talked me into this.”

“I know, Dean. I know. But you need to take my hands.”

And it’s the last thing Dean wants, and it’s the only thing he wants, but he does it.

And almost immediately, calms.

“What-… How did you do that?”

“I’m sorry, Dean. I didn’t tell you. The physical connection, it isn’t just there to comfort you. It’s to stabilize you. The potion is powerful, and your grief is worse still, so you need to channel it through me.”

“You can do that kind of magic?”

“If I focus very hard. My mother is much better at it than I am.”

“Shit, I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

“I imagine you will do worse before the day is over. Please don’t worry about it, Dean. I’m here to help.”

Dean knows himself, in this brief respite that’s probably extremely exhausting for Cas. He knows Cas is right. That he’ll do worse, probably. It was really selfish, he suddenly realizes, to do this in Cas’ home. He might break things. Fill the place up with energy so dark Cas won’t be able to get it out for weeks. And he’ll lash out. Hit Cas where it hurts, if only to make him give up on Dean. It’s not something Dean imagines he’ll be able to forgive himself.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

He should have just taken the potion at home, alone. Told Cas he called Sam or something. Maybe only pretended to have taken it, too.

“Dean. We are doing this now. I can’t say that I’m sorry for causing you pain, because I’m not the one causing it. But I am sorry you are in so much pain.”

“You wanna stay there on the floor? You look like you’re proposing, man.”

“Well, how about you join me here? It’s quite nice, or so I’ve found.”

Now that Dean knows what he is doing, he can see the sheen of strain in Cas’ smile.

“Yeah, okay, Cas.”

He awkwardly lowers himself to the floor and they arrange themselves to sit with their backs to the wall. Shoulder to shoulder, hands still joined. It is kind of nice, looking at the legs of the chairs and the table, the cluttered shelves behind them. “A little like college,” he says without thinking, but he thinks he can see Cas smile, out of the corner of his eye, so he counts it as a win.

“What was college like for you? Or the academy? You ever went to any house parties?”

“I was part of a group of fire mages responsible for the theater department’s special effects. They got-… pretty wild.”

“Yeah, theater geeks, man. So much drama, so much entertainment.”

“They were the only parties I ever went to, really, but they were certainly memorable.”

For a moment, they just sit there in quiet.

“What were you like the rest of the time?”, Dean eventually asks, and Cas huffs a small laugh.

“Quiet, studious. Very focused and I’m afraid not very social. I was the kind of person living at a dorm who’d yell out into the hall to keep the noise down. And once, I specifically mixed up a sleeping potion and put it into my roommate’s Pepsi, because I had a big test coming up, and he was the loud kind of fire mage, always trying out the kind of tricks that go boom and leave a hole in your ceiling.”

Dean actually laughs at that.

“You drugged your roommate? That’s pretty bad-ass, Cas.”

In his periphery, he can see Cas ruefully shake his head.

“Oh, he pissed me off a lot, but I felt so bad about it that I turned myself in and received a zero on my test as well as three weeks-worth of detention for it. So you see, I wasn’t particularly much fun. You wouldn’t have liked me.”

“I’m not so sure about that.”

Dean looks over at Cas, for a moment swept up in imagining what it would be like if they were there right now. If he was just a college guy who for some reason managed to charm a hot guy from the academy enough for them to sit on a floor somewhere together, holding hands and telling stories. Maybe make out later. Definitely make out later. He definitely would have liked Cas.

The illusion is shattered by the sweat on Cas’ brow. This little respite is costing him a lot more than his easy tone and reminiscent smile is letting on.

“Ben was sick even then,” Dean says suddenly, and looks away from Cas again, at the forest of furniture legs in front of him. “We didn’t know it, and the healers missed it, too. Probably a good thing. I don’t think we would have ever been happy if we’d known.”

“When did you find out?”

“When he was four. He was a happy kid, you know. Liked to run around, even though he was slower than his friends. We always thought he was just really bad at sports. But he-… uh, collapsed. When they were playing baseball at his friend’s birthday party. I wasn’t even there. Halfway across the state at some garden fair. Drove eight hours just to make it to the hospital. Lisa was a mess on the phone. At the hospital, too. I’d never seen her like that.”

“It took three hours, even after I got there, until we were allowed to see our kid. At first, I thought they were just messing with us, telling us someone was in there with him to make sure by the time a healer actually had time to resonate with his body, they wouldn’t have to get rid of the hysterical parents. I was so mad. But I guess it really took that long. Wasn’t only one healer, either. Three healers, six healers in training, and two technicians, just to figure out what was wrong with him.”

“What was it?”

“That’s the thing, Cas. No one had ever seen it before. It’s why the healers missed it at the early check-ups. We got assigned this whole expert team who didn’t really know shit, and I think the main guy out of that group later published a paper where he named the thing that was eating my boy up alive after himself. But they couldn’t really help. They gave him three months, maybe.”

He takes a deep breath, and knows it’ll be the last thing he’ll be able to say for a while.

“He lived six more years.”

And then breathing gets difficult and the chair forest blurs into light brown blobs and shapeless lines. Cas holds one of his hands tighter, even as he lets go of the other to fish out a tissue for Dean.

Dean wonders if he’s still channeling, because right now, he feels like Cas’ presence gives him more strength than any magic.

“I think,” it’s the most cautious Cas has sounded all evening, “I think we can stop there.”

And that means that Cas still is channeling Dean’s grief, that this is still a watered-down version, easily digestible for Dean in comparison to what’s actually inside him.

“Can you feel me?”, he asks, nonsensically, some choked out thing. “Can you feel him?”

“I could, Dean. I could feel you.” 

 

_ The seer had travelled far and seen much, and being in the presence of gods should not alarm her. Yet even with the limited understanding humankind could have for the divine, she understood she had unwittingly become part of something monumental. And she was wary of them.  _

_ And so the gods of old provided her with the two things she required: They gave her both an incentive and an explanation.  _

_ As an incentive, they promised her an exception. For a long time now, the gods of old had not brought new gifts to the humans they watched. Her and her family, however, they promised to bless with magic - for this the humans had called the gifts of the gods - the likes of which the world had not seen in eons.  _

_ They intended to fulfill this.  _

_ As an explanation, they told her the invisible god had transgressed against the order of the world. They told her he was tampering with the gift of the gods. They told her he did not respect the sanctity of human magic, and could not remain an active part of this world built upon it. They told her he would bring great harm to humanity. _

_ They did not lie. The threat they presented to the seer was the one they perceived.  _

_ And faced with their earnestness, the seer agreed.   _


	7. Chapter 7

Dean wakes up empty. He probably dreamt too much, but he can’t seem to remember any of it, just that it left him numb.

It’s ironic, because he woke up in Cas’ arms. Sort of. They’re both on the couch, which is hardly enough space for two people, and they must have shifted in the course of the night to accommodate for that. Cas is lying plastered to his back, probably squished in between Dean’s body and the back of the couch. His arms are lax with sleep, but still the only thing that keep Dean from tumbling to the ground.

It should feel good. Dean has certainly wanted to wake up like this with Cas often enough. Preferably with fewer clothes on, and on one of their beds, but he wouldn’t have been picky.

But Dean wakes up empty, and Cas’ loose embrace feels smothering more than anything.

Still, the thought of extracting himself seems like too much. Not because it’s pleasant, but because getting up would be worse. Moving would be worse. Having to stand on his own feet, hold himself up, would be worse.

He doesn’t want to be here, but that’s because he doesn’t want to be anywhere. His entire body is aching, and his soul is a raw thing wrapped in cotton balls. He hates touching cotton.

He closes his eyes again, because staring at the empty television, barely visible in the dim light from outside, isn’t better than darkness. It’s probably very early in the morning. He probably woke up because he’s usually on his way to the greenhouse by now.

It looks to be a sunny day, and that feels like a punch in the gut.

But he can’t sleep, now that he’s stopped it. Just lies there motionless, resentful of every bit of him that is touching Cas and fucking hating it.

Cas was good, yesterday. He was so good to him, but now Dean wishes he wasn’t here.

It’s all soured. Their entire friendship, relationship, whatever light romantic things he might have felt. He should never have taken that potion. Especially not with Cas.

Maybe he should never have moved here at all. Definitely not walked over to complain about dying plants only to meet a kind, beautiful guy who was basically giving them hospice care.

His bladder is beginning to complain, but he can’t bring himself to move an inch.

* * *

It’s much later when Cas stirs, and the movement grates on Dean more than anything before. Soft and sleepy and probably so good in a different context, with a younger, less burdened version of Dean. It feels like someone is dragging those cotton balls across Dean’s exposed nerves now, and it’s the thing that finally repels him enough to get up.

He sits up, scoots as much forward as he can without losing the support of the couch beneath him, and realizes he has no idea where the bathroom is. The thought of trying all those different doors is too much, so he just stays where he is, clenching his jaw.

Cas’ hand brushes against his elbow and he draws back on instinct.

“Dean?”

It sounds tired and worried and wonderful, all rough with sleep and half smooshed into the pillow, and Dean can’t fucking bear it.

“Bathroom?”, he grinds out, and makes himself stand up, if only to avoid further physical contact. His legs barely hold him up, and it  _ hurts _ .

“Oh, uhm. First door to the left.”

He doesn’t say thanks. Probably can’t, at this point. He can barely walk over there, one stiff step after the other. Almost stops entirely, because it’s too hard. But he makes it. Reaches out, pushes the door open, and then pulls it shut behind him.

It’s a simple, small bathroom. This side of the house faces away from the rising sun, so it’s almost completely dark, but he can make out a clawed bathtub from at least a century ago, and an old-fashioned toilet. He makes it there. Manages to pee holding himself up with one hand on the wallpaper. The texture is horrible against his palm, but he can barely keep standing. Flushes. Tucks himself back in. Washes his hands in the sink. Is glad when he’s turned the water off again, because he can’t stand that tingle of magic at the moment, let alone water tainted by bad piping.

Sinks to the floor, then. Lies down there, curled on his side in the small space, half on the coarse rug, half on the tiles. Doesn’t know which is worse and can’t shift around enough to find out. Not comfortable. Cold, but he can’t hold himself up for one second longer.

He closes his eyes and tunes out the sounds of Cas outside the door.

He was so excited about Cas. So happy, for a little while. But it was all fake.

This is him. This is all he’ll ever be.

He wants Cas to be somewhere else.

* * *

He must have fallen asleep again, because he’s startled awake by the soft knock on the door.

“Dean? Can I come in?”

He doesn’t answer. It’s really cold, so he makes himself roll more onto the rug.

“Can you answer me, Dean?”

‘Go away, Cas,’ he wants to say, but it hardly seems worth the effort. His head is pounding, and he feels nauseous again.

“I’m going to open the door, Dean. Please tell me if you’d like me to leave you alone a while longer.”

He wishes he could. He closes his eyes tighter. Can’t even make a sound.

The door opens, and he wishes he could stop it. There is light now. So much light it paints the insides of his eyelids red. He whimpers.

“Dean.”

Cas’ voice is closer now, much closer. Like he’s kneeling before Dean. He wishes he’d stop saying his name. He hates his name.

At least he doesn’t touch him, and his shadow makes the sun disappear again.

“I’m going to get you a blanket, Dean. I’m sorry. I should have prepared for this better. I’ll be right back.”

‘Don’t bother,’ Dean wants to say, but then the sunlight hits him again, and he cranks open one eye to see Cas disappearing into the light, and then he’s so sick he barely manages to make it to the toilet bowl.

He ate sandwiches, yesterday. He remembers. Cas made them for him. Sandwiches and water and that damn potion. Maybe he’ll throw up the rest of that, too. Maybe he’ll throw up until there is nothing left of him at all.

He dimly registers that Cas is back, because suddenly, there is a blanket draped over his shoulders. He’ll probably throw up on that, too, but Cas doesn’t seem bothered by it.

Dean is still choking on nothing when he returns with a glass of water. Dean can’t lift his fingers from where he’s clutching the toilet seat with white knuckles, but he allows Cas to lift the glass to his mouth, pour some of the water into his mouth, and swirls it around for a bit before spitting it back out. It’s the crystal water, he dimly notices. Something Dean made, ending up right where it belongs, in the middle of an amalgam of half-digested sandwiches and bile.

They repeat the process a few times, until he can’t spit anymore, and the water just trickles out of his mouth on top of the foul-smelling mess. Then Castiel wipes his mouth with toilet paper – it feels revolting, but at least the disgusting wetness around his mouth is gone – and Dean slowly sinks back. Castiel flushes the toilet, and places the half-full water glass on the floor next to Dean. In easy reach, but not close enough for Dean to accidentally knock it over.

“Please drink, if you can. I will dim the lights as much as I can.”

Dean takes a few shuddering breaths. He’s shaking, and he’s not sure if the blanket feels good or bad. He can barely lift the glass, but he makes himself slowly sip it until the water is gone. Then his arm falls down heavily again, and the glass hits the tiles with an unpleasant ‘ding’. 

By the time he’s done with this, it’s indeed darker in the living room, and Cas is hovering in the doorway again. His voice is soft, but decided. Like he knows Dean cannot stand the noise, and like he knows Dean cannot make his own decisions right now.

“I know you probably don’t want to be touched right now, Dean, but I’m going to help you to a place you can lie down now.”

He’s not asking for permission, and he’s right, Dean wouldn’t give it. But he knows Cas has a point. He can’t stay here. For starters, Cas probably needs to use the toilet, too, at some point. And he knows there is no way he can walk by himself at the moment.

Useless. So fucking useless, everything about him.

His face distorts into the kind of grimace only made during ugly crying, but there are no tears. Cas wraps his arms around him, and Dean does his best to help him get Dean upright, and then standing. He’s leaning entirely on Cas, and every inch of skin he’s touching, even through the layers, is screaming in agony. But he can take a step, with Cas holding him up, then another, until he’s in the living room. It’s dim, but not dark, and he has his eyes almost scrunched shut, but he makes out hasty drawings of runes on the light-yellow cloth of the curtains. Permanent marker to keep out the light. He actually made Cas deface his damn curtains. That’s the kind of useless he is.

Cas doesn’t steer him towards the couch, as Dean would have expected, but through another open door into a properly black room. By the time he understands this is Cas’ bedroom, he’s already dropped onto the bed.

“I’m sorry, Dean. It’s the only room with proper curtains. And you can lie down here, for as long as you need to.”

Dean whimpers, and slowly drags himself up the mattress, until only his feet are dangling over the edge. He wishes he’d worn sweatpants, because the jeans fucking hurt, but he doesn’t have the strength to take them off, and he really doesn’t have the strength to ask Cas to do it for him. He’s glad he’s not wearing shoes anymore, at least. The weight might have dragged his body off the bed.

The sheets don’t feel great, but they’re not as grating as the bathroom rug had been, and when Cas carefully drapes the blanket over him again, not once touching him, he lets him.

He’s exhausted, and everything hurts.

“I will be in the living room,” Cas murmurs, and it feels like the caress Dean can’t bear right now.

He pulls the door almost shut. Just a thin sliver of dimmed light Dean could easily ignore if only he could turn his head to the other side. It takes the last of his strength, but he does it, and when he closes his eyes now, everything is black and blessedly quiet.

He not so much falls asleep as he glides into it, the cotton balls finally good for something.

* * *

When he wakes up, there is a is a plate of bread and cheese on the nightstand, both pre-cut to exact, easy to pop into your mouth cubes, as well as another glass of water. He’s not sick now, but he still feels hollow, so he gulps down the water and tastelessly munches on the food until he doesn’t want any more. It feels condescending, somehow. Like the kind of thing you’d make for a child too small to hold a piece of bread. Then he remembers that before he slept, he probably wouldn’t have been able to hold a piece of bread.

His mood turns from numb to bitter, even as he’s relieved he no longer seems to have problems moving. He gets up, and walks to the heavy curtains obscuring the windows. He pulls them open, and is rewarded with an obnoxiously sunny day, and the return of a splitting headache.

“Fuck,” he mutters, and pulls them shut again. He’s momentarily blinded by the sunlight, and his head is killing him, so he plops back down on the bed. Both clothing and sheets still don’t feel great against his skin, and he quickly grows bored of just lying there.

He stands up again, and pushes the door open. He doesn’t see Cas anywhere, but Pala is there, for some reason. The second he’s in the living room, she lands on the back of the couch, coos at him and cocks her head. It reminds him so much of Cas that he rolls his eyes.

“Where the hell is he, anyway?”

Pala caws, and flaps her wings twice, but it’s not much of an answer. At least she’s not hopping around on him; he’s really not in the mood for that.

He should just, go, really. There’s stuff to do with his plants, even though he really doesn’t feel like doing any of it, and he’s slept long enough. Fat lot of good it did him, too. Cas is a pretty lousy grief-manager. There was probably something wrong with the potion, too. With that kind of headache, there is no way Dean is stepping out into the sunlight. Not until he’s found some sort of sunglasses or whatever.

He ignores the bird and listlessly explores Cas flat. He vaguely remembers finding it interesting yesterday, but when he flicks a finger against a particularly strange and antique-looking instrument (something to do with stars, maybe, or sea-faring), he can’t really summon up any of that fascination.

He huffs out a breath of frustration.

Flops down onto the couch, hates the feel of it, gets up again.

Walks back and forth, pokes around the kitchen, opens up drawers and the fridge, and then, miraculously, finds the answers to his problem in a cupboard.

It’s full of honey. Perfect.

He’s still rooting around the shelves of another closet, when the door opens, and Cas comes back in. Dean doesn’t look at him.     

“Oh, you’re up.”

It sounds sweet and pleasantly surprised.

Dean only grunts.

“What are you looking for?”

A bit more cautious, now, and it pisses Dean off a very undeserved amount.

“Tea,” he bites out. Cas knows which tea.

“Oh, Dean, I’m sorry. Not yet.”

“What do you mean, not yet?”

“You’re still in the middle of processing.”

“Well, maybe I don’t want to process anymore.”

“I know you don’t. But you’ve come so far.”

“Come so far? I tell you all about my dead son, cry in your arms like a baby, go catatonic for half a day, and everything fucking hurts, and you call that coming far? Hurts, Cas. Physically hurts. Maybe you missed it, but this morning, I actually hurled. Give me the damn tea.”

“No.”

“Then what’s the fucking use of you!”

Dean is pretty sure he didn’t mean to get loud. He’s very sure he never even meant to start yelling at Cas to begin with. He just wanted to find some way to get out of there.

But he’s livid, all of a sudden. And Cas brought this on himself.

And now he stands there, arms crossed in front of his chest and leaning against the doorway, all casual like. Stubborn. Unhelpful. Dean doesn’t want to deal with him.

“Just leave me alone, Cas. You’ve done enough.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Dean rolls his eyes and makes to move out of the kitchen.

“Well, fine, then I am.”

And Cas blocks the doorway, arms crossed in front of him like a stern parent. Lisa did that sometimes, back when they could still get pissed at their kid.

“You are going to stay here, Dean.”

Dean walks uncomfortably close, until they’re nose to nose, almost.

“Like hell I am.”

Cas doesn’t move an inch. Instead says, calmly, like Dean is being unreasonable, “You are going to stay here, and ride this out, and I will decide when you are done processing, because clearly, you are not capable of rationality at the moment. Which is perfectly within the normal range of grief.”

“Newsflash, Cas! This isn’t grief, this is anger. I don’t know how you fucked that damn potion up, but all it’s done is make me sick, and hurt me, and now I’m fucking livid, so you better get out of my fucking way.”

“No.”

“What, you think me breaking down once means you suddenly get to make my decisions for me? Probably liked it, huh? Having me all vulnerable and dependent on you. Not like you’d ever make a move on me otherwise, because this is how you get your rocks off, isn’t it?”

“Dean.”

“Isn’t it? Oh look, I just got past you. And I’m in your living room now, still not processing my dead son, or how I yelled at Lisa that it was her fault, or how I messed up the last time I talked to him.”

“Dean.”

“Shut the fuck up. And this plant. You like this plant, huh? Look at it, all pathetic in the window sill. Like it’s not just going to wither and die-…” “Dean-…” “…-like everything you-…” “Dean, please!” “…-touch!”

And then the pot breaks on the floor.

For a moment, they both just stare at it. Then Cas rushes over to the little plant and falls to his knees.

It doesn’t look good. Most of it got crushed by debris, and what isn’t probably won’t survive the absolute violation Dean has committed.

“Fuck,” he mutters, feeling faint. Something is growing inside of him where the fury was moments before. Something horrible and worse than anything he’s felt in the last-… day? Day and a half? 

Cas’ head snaps up and his blue eyes fixate him for the first time since he threw the plant down.

“Dean.”

He doesn’t even sound pissed. Like he’s trying to comfort Dean. Dean starts shaking, and he can feel the tears rising, swelling, blocking out his vision.

“Fuck, Cas, I’m so-…”

Blurrily, he sees Cas getting up slowly, hands reaching out towards Dean like one would to a frightened animal. “It’s okay, Dean.”

He shakes his head, stumbles back a few steps. 

“It’s not.” A few more steps. His back hits something and feels along the wall until he’s found a door, overflowing eyes still fixated on the little plant he just killed. Cas’ plant. That he clearly loved enough to put into his window. “It’s not.”

He has run out of the apartment before Cas can reach him.

He doesn’t consist of anything but pain, and whatever more the sunlight can add, he undoubtedly deserves.

 

_ And so this mortal woman summoned the invisible god, to a place far removed from most of the known world. People would get there soon enough, but for a decade at least, the place would be undisturbed.  _

_ And upon having brought the invisible god to this place, she could see him clearly. She could see he was young and without fault, and that the gods of old knew nothing of his hopes for humankind. _

_ The gods did not listen to her pleas. _

_ And together, they cast the invisible god into a mortal form. _

_ So the seer refused the gift the gods had offered, and knowing she could not free the invisible god, left, to live her life in regret and eventually have children in a far-away place. _

_ In her shame, she did not pass the story down her line. She told no one but her best friend.  _

 


	8. Chapter 8

Monday morning, Dean does not leave his bed.

The sun creeps over the horizon and into his room, the day as bright as any, but he doesn’t move. He could, maybe, if he tried. But for the first time, he just doesn’t see the point.

He gets a phone call around the time Charlie is supposed to arrive at the garden market, but lets it ring. She tries again three more times, and he’s glad she doesn’t know where he lives.

Then he thinks that maybe, she might ask Cas if he knows what’s wrong, and the thought turns his stomach, so he sends her a quick text that he’s sick. He also gives her the hidden location of the spare keys, and tells her to just do customer service, he’ll take care of the plants later. He’s not sure he actually will.

The taller the sun rises, the hungrier he gets – astoundingly hungry – but he doesn’t get to have any food. There is tea in the kitchen that could help him feel better, next to a half-full jar of golden honey made by happy bees. He wants it much more than the food. But he deserves to feel lousy.

His night was surprisingly dreamless, considering the state he was in when he came back home. He almost crashed his car, because you just can’t see very much when you’re sobbing. He definitely wouldn’t have cared if he had. He also forgot Pala, and so far, she hasn’t knocked on his window. Maybe she’s as sick of him as he is.

He came home and he curled up on his mattress without even taking his clothes off or pulling the blankets over himself. Just lay there until the sun was low and his tears had run out.

Crying with Cas had felt cathartic, before everything got that much worse. It had been about loss and the need to deal with it. He’d been ready for those tears, as much as he hadn’t wanted them.

These were just self-pity, and he hated himself more for it, but they wouldn’t stop for a long time.

He’d slept, eventually. And when he awoke, he didn’t see Ben, didn’t hear the echo of his thinning voice, the cut of his cheekbones near the end. Instead, he saw the devastation on Cas’ face. He saw Cas falling to his knees next to the shards of a broken little pot. The sharp edges had cut off two leaves. He saw the little hyacinth, feebly peeking out from beneath the mess of soil and ceramics on Cas’ nice wooden floors.

Dean knows he has a knack for destroying things he loves, but this is a new low. He buries his face in the pillow and breathes out against the fabric.

Now that he can think clearly again, he remembers the way Cas looked even before this happened. Beneath the grim determination to help Dean, he’d looked tired. No doubt in part because he’d spent the majority of the night wedged between the back of the couch and Dean’s nightmares, and then later, Dean had taken his bed.

He looked drained, too, not just tired. Shaky. Every movement careful, as if decided, like he fought against a great heaviness, or a great amount of pain. Not unlike the first time Dean met him. Channeling Dean’s emotions for so long must have cost him vast energy reserves, especially if it wasn’t technically his forte. But he hadn’t complained.

And Dean can’t pretend he didn’t aim exactly where he knew Cas would be weakest. Where it would hurt most. He may have been irrationally angry, but his cruelty was a sharp thing, wielded with precision.

He is poison. Maybe that’s all he can be now.

But it’s not all that Cas saw in him.

It takes a few moments for him to gather up enough nerve to swing his legs over the side of his bed, and an even longer time to bring himself to move towards the bathroom.

Step by step, he tells himself. He may have alienated Cas, hurt him, irreparably ruined their friendship, let alone anything else that might have been developing, but he’ll be damned if he lets it all be in vain. It’s the first time in a long time that he can stomach the thought of looking through Ben’s things, and it’s all thanks to Cas.

He needs to find a way to make it up to him.

But first, he needs to do what Cas has told him to. He needs to take care of himself.

* * *

It’s approaching dark by the time he makes it out to the greenhouses. Charlie already locked up again, and the night lights are on. Cas’ house is dark and the silhouette of the hyacinth absent in his window.

Dean lets himself into his garden market, and then into the greenhouses to survey the damage of a day and a half’s worth of neglect.

Surprisingly, there is none.

It’s clear that today, Charlie only got around to performing the most rudimentary of things, and to be honest, they were executed rather poorly. He draws away some of the excess water in some of the flower beds – Charlie is awesome and the best thing that could have happened to this garden market in many regards, but she’s the last person who should ever perform any kind of plant care – but it’s sweet that she tried, and that’s the only thing wrong with his greenhouses.

Instead, many of the plants even look significantly better than the last time Dean saw them. The peppermint is positively glowing with health.

Clearly, someone did some work yesterday, and Dean has a sinking feeling he knows why Cas was gone when he woke up yesterday.

“Fuck,” he mutters into the humid air.  

* * *

When he tries to apologize to Cas the next day, empty-handed, because he’s pretty sure giving him another plant would do little but reawaken bad memories, the front door is locked, and a tentative knock yields no results. He’s shamefully relieved to put it off a little longer.

But the ‘Closed’ sign is still in place in the afternoon, and no matter how often he looks up from his work to see if there’s any movement behind Cas’ windows, he only sees dark rooms. There isn’t even the usual faint flicker of firelight, not even when the sunlight wouldn’t be strong enough to drown it out anymore.

Wednesday is much of the same, and he doesn’t know what to make of it. Obviously, the safest explanation would be that Cas went out of town. To visit some relatives maybe, because who even knows what kind of trauma Dean may have stirred up in him. He doesn’t even know the guy, not half as well as Cas knows Dean, now. There may be a great deal of things he needs some time to cope with.

But he could have sent Dean a text, at least to tell him how to get to the greenhouse to take care of the plants. The absolute radio silence is more of an indicator that Cas simply doesn’t want to see him.

Which Dean can respect, and definitely understand, even though it makes him feel like shit.

It doesn’t seem like Cas, though, and neither does the fact that he’s keeping the shop closed. He was even open that one time he was so sick he could barely even move.

Still, there are no answers to Dean’s pitiful texts, nor does anyone answer the doorbell. He wishes he had some kind of contact information for anyone who might know anything about Cas, but there’s no email-address except Cas’ on the website, and Dean doesn’t think he ever even mentioned having other friends. He briefly googles ‘Rune tailor in Milan Italy’, but to no one’s surprise, that leads exactly nowhere.

Thursday starts as a bad day. Happy dreams of Ben mixed with bad dreams of Cas, and for the first time, Dean cracks and allows himself a cup of the tea. Cas never said he should stop drinking it entirely, just that he should occasionally balance it with allowing the bad days, and not grow too dependent on the feelings it evoked.

He hasn’t forgotten that it felt amazing, but he undersold it in his memories. He remembered warmth and peace, and those are definitely there, but the quality of it all is lot like a liquid hug on an especially bright summer morning with the hope of the honey thrown in.

For some time, he just sits there in front of his tea and marvels at the intense gratitude radiating through him. Then goes to work, even more determined to find a way to at least convey that to Cas, even if they never returned to the easy friendship and fruitful partnership.

Pala is waiting for him in front of the greenhouse, and it’s the first time Dean has seen her since he stormed out of Cas’ place. It’s one of the longest periods she’s ever been gone, so Dean expected her to at least be a little mad at him still, but all she does is hop onto his shoulder and carefully tuck on his earlobe with her beak.

“Where were you, huh?” he murmurs somewhere in the direction of her feathers. He doesn’t really expect an answer and doesn’t get one.

In the morning, Cas’ shop is still closed, but when Dean does his daily nervous track over in his lunch break, the door is open a bit, and there are different plants in the window. The hyacinth isn’t among them, and Dean wonders if it’s because Cas could save the plant, or because it was too damaged to even display one last time.

His heart summer-saults and he stops walking. Pala has landed on the tree again and is looking at him with sharp eyes, but it takes a moment – and a car honking him off the street – to get his legs to work again.

Because the plan is to apologize. Find a way to make things right. But so far, and despite the days that have passed since it became his basic motivating factor, it’s still a very vague plan, and he doesn’t really have a clue what to do except show up and hope Cas will give him pointers.

He knocks on the door despite the fact that it’s open, cautious. The last thing he wants is to surprise or overwhelm Cas.

“It’s open, moron,” a voice calls, and it’s neither Castiel’s, nor is it any way to greet a potential customer. Dean steps in anyway, brows furrowing.

There’s a man sitting in Cas’ usual spot, his feet on the counter and a self-satisfied smirk on his face.

“Uhm, who are you?”

“The substitute. Temporary replacement. Guy who knows jack-shit about the new filing system. Goes by the name of Gabriel. Gabe for friends and family, neither category of which you fall into.”

The guy sounds as snide as he looks.

“Where’s Cas?”

That earns him the guy sitting up straight and taking his feet off the counter.

“Cas?”

Dean really doesn’t like him.

“Castiel,” he bites out. Then adds, “Novak. The guy who owns this shop.”

The guy’s eyes are positively full of glee. He’d make a good goblin, Dean thinks. Or an old Norse god of trickery. Leprechaun, maybe.

“I know who he is, jack-ass. I’m wondering at the lovingly spoken abbreviation.”

And that hits a little very much too close to home. Dean swallows dryly; wonders what to say. Knows he cannot let himself be intimidated by this guy. “He’s my friend.” Well, he was. Dean is not so sure at the moment.

“Cassie doesn’t have friends.”

“Excuse me?”

Gabriel doesn’t elaborate. Just looks Dean up and down like a piece of meat that might fall short of previous expectations.

“You’re the guy who works in that garden market opposite, right?”

“Owns that garden market,” Dean corrects through gritted teeth, “yeah.”

“You’re awfully pretty.”

It’s spoken with unmistakable derision, but Dean’s eyebrows hit the top of his forehead anyway.

“Are you coming on to me?”

The guy actually has the audacity to shrug. He looks-… surprisingly dangerous, suddenly. “Stating a fact.”

“Just tell me where he is.”

Gabriel takes a moment to answer. Keeps looking at Dean in that unnerving way. Finally drawls, “Visiting our dear aunt. Got caught up there and asked me to step in while he’s gone.”

It sounds fake. For starters, it just doesn’t make any sense.

“Do you even know anything about plant-care? It’s not just the shop, you know. There’s a whole green-house full of living things that need taking care of. Not to mention the bees.”

“And he’s met the bees. Curiouser and curiouser.”

“Hey, don’t change the subject. Do you or don’t you know how to take care of them?”

“I’m not a complete imbecile.”

“You sure sound like one.”

“So defensive of my little bro. He definitely owes me a story or two. To answer your question; I run a joke shop. I’m good with fire and explosives and things that go boom. Doesn’t mean I never learned the family business.”

Something’s fishy. 

“He never mentioned a brother.”

“How shall my poor heart take it.”

Seriously, that guy needs a good punch in the face. Probably not the way to get back into Castiel’s good graces, but still. Dean goes on, undeterred, “Just a sister. Anna.”

The guy is drumming his fingers on the counter now, faux-casual.

“What else has he told you about our family?”

If this guy is any indication of what the rest of them are like, it certainly explains a lot.

“Just that you guys don’t seem to care much whether your descendants actually want to take over the family business.”

“Interesting. Has he also mentioned the piles and piles of money in our collective bank accounts?”

The implication is crystal clear, and couldn’t be more insulting. Dean just isn’t sure who it’s more insulting to, him or Cas. He’s not the type to make friends with a guy for his money, but Dean gets why Gabriel might jump to the conclusion. What he can’t forgive about this is the implication that Cas is naïve enough to not understand a supposed friend was only after cold hard cash.

“Like I give a shit.” He sneers. Then, as a well-placed afterthought, “Actually, considering how much of it there supposedly is, you could at least get a guy to change the pipes in this place. I’m pretty sure he’ll die of lead poisoning before long.”

Gabriel’s eyes turn very cold, and Dean takes a step back. He knows what the contemplation of murder looks like. When Gabriel stands up, he’s not a very tall guy. Definitely nowhere near as big as his attitude. But there is something undoubtedly threatening about him, and his voice is a shard of ice.

“I think you should leave now. I need to have a good long talk with my brother.”

“I thought he was out of town,” Dean says with no small amount of bitterness.

Gabriel just looks at him. Calculating. No hint of a smirk now. “Maybe he is. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to talk to you.”

And this is not how Dean wants to do this. Not through this jerk. Who might not even tell Cas. But maybe making things up to his friend begins with biting his own lips and mumbling,

“Tell him I’m sorry.”

Gabriel doesn’t say a thing, but his eyes narrow.

Dean leaves. Notices the shop is nowhere near as hot as usual, that the cool March air doesn’t feel like a balm on his skin, but like a chill. Pala hops off the tree and flies with him to the greenhouse.

His skin is crawling, and it takes a while for his breathing to calm, even with his familiar gently tugging on his hair until he’s in the small staff kitchen, where he has an emergency water boiler and stash of tea and honey.

* * *

It’s not until the Monday after that he sees Cas again. He’s sort of given up on ever laying his eyes on him again, so it definitely comes as a surprise when he wants to open up his garden market, and finds Castiel sitting in front of it. He stands up as Dean’s stride slows. It’s the thick robes again, and he looks a little worse for wear. His face is blank.

Oh. This is probably that part of their story where Cas tells him to never bother him again. Well, not the part of the story. The end of it.

Dean comes to a stop, still a few feet away from Castiel.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says, and it feels insanely, irrationally good to hear his voice again, even carefully devoid of feeling.

Dean doesn’t say anything, and stays rooted to the spot.

Cas sighs, and steps wearily closer. “I hear you’ve met my brother.”

“He’s nothing like you.”

They’re not the first words he planned on saying to Castiel after all of this, but apparently, that’s what they’re talking about now. At least they are still talking. Or talking again.

“Yes, we’re quite different. He’s funnier, for starters.”

“Bullshit.”

“And I am probably right in assuming he was incredibly rude to you.”

“A little,” Dean concedes. Looks away, then. “No more than I deserve, probably.”

He sees Castiel stepping closer, but he can’t really bring himself to meet his eyes. Not until Cas is right in front of him, and softly guides his face upwards with cracked fingertips on his chin. There’s not a whole lot of light, yet, but his eyes are burning.

“Dean,” Cas says, and his head-tilt and sweet frown make Dean want to fall into his arms and never let go of him again. “I really wish you hadn’t left.”

Cas’ hand cups Dean’s face, now. It feels good, and Dean can’t help but turn his cheek into the rough palm.

“I fucked up, Cas,” he manages to say, but it comes out raw and broken, and it makes Cas look even sadder.

“You didn’t. I told you, Dean. I told you I was prepared for whatever emotions you needed to let out.”

“I killed your plant. You loved that little plant.”

“I do. And you didn’t. I saved it.” Dean’s breath hitches. “I should have gone after you instead, but you were gone too quickly, and I don’t have a car.” 

“I’m so sorry, Cas.”

“You don’t need to be. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you the entire time. The rest of the day must have been difficult for you.”

“Who cares about the rest of my day.”

“I do. I thought I’d made that clear.”

“Okay.” He breathes out, and it’s almost a sob. “Okay.”

He wants to ask if he can hug Cas, but can’t force any more words past his throat. He doesn’t need to, because Cas lets his hand fall to Dean’s back, and draws him in, until Dean’s chin is on Cas’s shoulder, and he’s holding him too tight. The thick robes barely conceal that Cas seems to have lost some weight.

“Where were you,” Dean’s voice is muffled against Cas’ hair. It smells good. Like wood smoke. The fire is probably already roaring in the shop, and Dean suddenly longs for that unnatural heat. He burrows closer into Cas.

“I would rather not speak of it, Dean,” Cas whispers, and the sound of his voice right next to Dean’s ear would be shiver-inducing, if this situation was anything other than what it is.

“Yeah, okay.”

It’s an embarrassingly long time before Dean can get himself to let go. He does so with a manly clap on Cas’ shoulder that does absolutely nothing to restore any kind of street cred. His eyes are still a little wet, and he quickly turns away to wipe off that excess moisture. It prickles on his skin, but it doesn’t exactly feel uncomfortable. In fact, he feels better than he has in days.

“Would you like to see it?” Cas asks with a gentle smile, and Dean doesn’t need to ask what he means.

“I’d like to help it.”

Cas grins.

“Well then, Dean. What type of mineral benefits hyacinths best?”

* * *

Cas joins him in the mineral shed, which is a first. There are a couple of things Dean actually came here to do, but all of these can wait, and it’s still a few hours until the garden market officially opens, anyway.

It’s a bit crowded in the shed, as it really wasn’t built for more people than just Dean, but the soft, unabashedly happy looks traded, as well as Castiel’s genuine fascination with Dean’s work makes pretty damn sure he doesn’t banish his friend outside. Besides, he doesn’t mind brushing up against Cas every once in a while. Really, really doesn’t.

What works best for hyacinths, Dean has found, is jaspis. He has a pre-made bottle of grinded jaspis sand, but he doesn’t tell Cas that, and instead grinds down a whole new stone. He also adds a very small but extremely valuable piece of alexandris. He figures if anything was ever worth the expense, Cas’ hyacinth is it.

He shakes it all out in a bottle, until the sand is evenly mixed, then gives it to Castiel, who holds it up and looks at it with something like wonder.

“I never could get the hang of mineral magic,” he murmurs with a smile, shaking his head a little.

They walk over to Cas’ shop, maybe a little too closely together. Occasionally, his hand brushes Cas’, which has the bottle safely clasped behind warm fingers.

It’s hot in there again, terribly hot, and it makes Dean grin. The chimes play something vaguely dissonant and haunting, and he sticks his tongue out at them. Castiel passes him, and in following him to the door at the other end of the room, Dean once more appreciates what a beautiful head of hair Cas has. It looks perfect for running ones’ hands through it.

Maybe someday, he thinks, and it fills him with more warmth than the blazing heat of the room.

It’s a relief to find the greenhouse as enchanted and enchanting as ever, the several rows of spring green and matt olive and dark purple, the little white flowers, the large orange blossoms, all of it intact and well-taken care of.

And then, Dean sees the little hyacinth. Still a little droopy, a few blossoms and most of its leaves gone, but in dark brown soil, and stubbornly clinging to life.

“Hey,” he croaks, then realizes he usually doesn’t talk to his plants, at least nowhere near as much as Castiel does. They come to stand in front of it, and Castiel gives him a moment alone with the little flower by filling a bowl with water. “I’m sorry I hurt you,” he murmurs, and stops just short of touching the plant. It, much like Cas, doesn’t look like it’s mad at him. But then again, it is a plant.

He carefully divides the earth around the plant, examining the roots while he’s at it. They truly do seem to be uninjured for the most part. He also notices it’s without a doubt the plant with the most free space allotted to it, to make sure it gets the vague sunlight falling through the glass, and all the nutrients in the soil. Cas already put some minerals in there – textbook, most likely – and they aren’t the wrong ones, but he knows his mixture is going to yield far better results.

Castiel comes to stand next to him and places the water bowl onto the small work bench.  

“I hurt it a lot,” Dean states, but he no longer feels like crying, which is something.

“It’s a tough little plant.” Cas’ voice sounds like the soothing gurgle of a brook. “It’s hanging in there.”

And then he turns to Dean, fixates him with that stormy, determined blue. “And I’m saving it, if it’s the last thing I do.”

And Dean realizes that while he has imbued Cas’ identity onto the plant, Cas has done the same with him. It should feel condescending, but all it does is make his stomach flutter.

He breathes in. “Maybe together, we can do it.”

 

_ Yet the god, unwilling to die with the mortal shape he had been given, resisted. He had been given a mortal form, but he understood the brilliant thing about mortality is that life antecedes death. And so he lived and he grew and he reached out when he could.  _

_ A decade passed and people came, and they settled near him.  _

_ They did not know him; they could not see him. Even the form he was trapped in remained inaccessible to most. The original family of seers did not return. _

_ Familiars, he found, noticed him and understood him to be unnatural. Some attacked him and caused him great harm. Others tried to tell their mages about the invisible god and were unsuccessful.  _

_ When he found a way to prolong his life, he was grieved to find it was at the detriment of familiars. For when he bound his essence to a suitable young man of the family living there, he shared it as a familiar would with the mage it chose, and the familiar, cut off from the magic it had shared, perished.  _

_ And the god’s growth slowed, and the man lived for longer than his peers, and had powers more extraordinary than any of them. _


	9. Chapter 9

There are conversations happening now that were previously an unmentioned taboo. They return to their old routine of taking care of each other’s plants, but now more than ever, they also take care of each other.

Dean makes sure Cas eats enough, even when he doesn’t seem to have much of an appetite. Most of the time, he’ll grumble, but eat whatever fat-saturated deliciousness Dean brings him, if only to appease Dean. And Cas introduces Dean to his bees, officially. Sting-proof robes and everything. And if the sight of the happily buzzing hive and the smell of that wonderful honey wasn’t enough to bring Dean’s mood around, the sheer look of adoration and the soft, cooing voice Castiel has for his bees would be enough to light even his darkest nightmares.

He talks now, sometimes. Little things that remind him of Ben. Memories he doesn’t push down until they drown him, but shares. He misses his boy. He misses the life he should have had.

He writes Lisa an email, one night, after a long, calm evening of tending to his apple trees with Cas and talking about how much Ben absolutely detested anything to do with apples. The artificial flavor would be greeted with choking back fake vomit, but the real deal still earned a disgusted frown and a refusal to even try a bite. Even apple pie, Dean’s favorite, was categorically dismissed.

Over the last year and a half, Lisa has made a few attempts to reach out to him. They divorced three years into realizing Ben was incurably sick, more because the romance had died than lack of love. There was never much resentment from either party, and they continued to be good friends.

Dean knows without her, he probably wouldn’t have survived his son’s last months, but that hadn’t stopped him from cutting all ties.

“Why did you? Feel the need to leave it all behind?” Cas asked him, and though the answer should have been obvious, it’s difficult to formulate. They stopped working a few minutes ago, and are now watching the bees who’ve flown over from Cas’ garden and are doing a wonderful job pollinating Dean’s trees. They did so before they knew each other, obviously, but it’s a special kind of joy now that he knows what their honey tastes like.

“The usual, I guess. Just felt like I couldn’t bear to stay there, where everything reminded me of all the things that weren’t going to happen now. Like I’d go crazy if I went by Ben’s room one more time, or drove past his school, or ran into one of the kids he used to hang out with. Couldn’t stand the condolences, they made me want to smash things.”

Castiel hums, and they both watch a small bee land on his sleeve, where it rests for a while.

“We should put up some water here, for the bees,” he thinks aloud, and Dean is already thinking about where to put it.

“A little bowl. With marbles in them, so that they can land.”

“Yes, exactly.”

“Like in your garden.”

Castiel’s garden is – in lack of a better way to describe it – magical. The plants he raises out there are surprisingly practical in nature, carrots and celery, rhubarb and raspberries. A large portion of it a stone spiral of different uncomplicated herbs, happily reaching for the sun. And flowers, masses of them, and most of them clearly chosen for their aesthetic value rather than their magical.

Much like the greenhouse, the garden is small and cozy. and there are vines growing all around it, wrapped around the the weave of twigs that cover some portions of it, and climbing up the back of the house. There is a bench in a small clearing, with a view of the beehive, and replacing the wooden planks between the wrought iron is high on Dean’s list of things he wants to do for Cas.

For now, though, they’re enjoying the sunset in Dean’s much vaster garden, where they can watch it sink beneath the horizon. Or in this case, behind the shrubbery.

“It wasn’t fair to Lisa,” Dean offers, and Cas’ hand comes to rest quite close to his. “I left her there to deal with all of it alone.”

“Are you still in contact?”

“Not really. I mean, she’s reached out a couple of times, but I haven’t really-… I didn’t want to think about any of it.”

Castiel hums his understanding. The bee, rested now, takes off and flies home.

“You should tell her. About the apples. And that you’re doing better. She sounds like she’ll be glad to hear it.”

So for the first time, Dean writes an email that isn’t a short ‘I’m fine’. She is indeed glad to hear from him, and she tells him about the time Ben stomped back home from one of his friend’s birthdays, muttering about ‘bopping for apples, my ass’. He laughs until he cries, and the tears don’t feel anywhere near as heavy.

* * *

If there’s anything meeting Cas’ brother has taught Dean – other than the fact that he’d really prefer if that never happened ever again – is that he knows astoundingly little about this man he calls his best friend, the person he spends more hours of the day with than anyone else. So little by little, he makes sure to learn more about him.

Some things, Cas laughs at when he asks. Stupid things whose answers Dean could have deduced, like his favorite color (the color of honey) or his favorite animal (bees). Kindergarten questions he sometimes casually introduces into their conversations.

Other things, he gives slow and careful answers to, and sometimes Dean has the feeling he edits some things out of the narrative. But he figures Cas deserves to open up as slowly as he is comfortable with.

And it’s not like he’s a completely open book himself. There are still more than enough things he keeps close to his heart. The fact that he’s probably fallen in love with Cas somewhere along the way among them.

It’s a conversation he hasn’t yet figured out how to tackle, even as they get more and more tactile with each other, and their personal space becomes a shared bubble rather than two non-intersecting entities. He doesn’t even know if it is a change he is ready to make, yet. And Cas seems perfectly content to wait for him to figure it out.

* * *

Another difficult conversation they do have is about Cas’ familiar.

They’re in Cas’ garden today, where Cas has tended to the bees while Dean took the measurements for repairing the bench.

It’s the kind of weather you picture when you think of spring. Not the grizzly grey of February, not the repetitive rain fall. This: Sunshine in a pale blue sky, birds singing throughout the day and building nests, the flowers following the sun with wide-open blossoms in beautiful shades of bright white, buttery yellow, tender pink and dark blue, and through it all, the light green of awakening life and the buzz of Cas’ bees.

Dean had the phenomenal idea to put some beers into a through of water he cooled himself, and when they’re both momentarily out of things to do, they sit down in front of the bench, side by side, and Dean opens up two bottles.

He doesn’t drink much, and recently, he’s been too aware of how dangerous it would be to start with some unresolved grief and lack of purpose in life hanging over him still. But he sees no harm in a couple of beers in a relaxed atmosphere with a friend. Who, after a moment’s hesitation that tells him Cas doesn’t drink much either, accepts the idea – and later, the beer – with a smile.

That kind of smile. The devastating kind.

Dean kind of forgot how much he likes beer. The simple, refreshing bitterness. Taste of malt and long summer nights.

Cas on the other hand, is obviously trying not to turn up his nose at the taste, and it’s a tad too endearing for Dean to be able to bear.

Pala is hopping around on the grass in front of them, pecking at the sun-dry earth. Searching for insects, probably. Dean is kind of glad familiars can usually take care of himself, because he really doesn’t feel like procuring insects to feed to a crow.

Cas has his eyes closed. A slight smile playing around his lips in a way that makes Dean feel all sorts of light-headed (and it probably has nothing whatsoever to do with the minimal amount of alcohol he just ingested). Just enjoying the sun. A soft, not too cold breeze is ruffling his hair, and Dean really wants to do the same. Cas just has very good hair. One hand is wrapped loosely around the perspiring bottle, and Dean is torn between wanting to tell him he doesn’t have to drink the beer if he doesn’t like it, or tell him beer’s an acquired taste and it’ll get better over time until it finally reaches very good.

For now, he doesn’t say anything. Enjoys getting to look at Cas almost as much as the beer and the peace and the hum of bees.

They’re both broken out of their reverie when Pala hops onto Castiel’s leg. She does that, sometimes. Abandon Dean to hang out with Cas. She’s even adapted some of the same mannerism for dealing with Cas as she does with Dean. Like tugging on things with her beak. His hair, or his earlobe, or his robes. Right now, she’s targeting the shoelaces of the very un-sophisticated pair of sneakers Cas wears with his very sophisticated robes today. They’re bright turquoise, and Dean has been marveling at them all day.

“It’s Sunday. No customers on Sunday,” Castiel explained earlier. Usually, he wears black leather boots. The kind you have to go to a shoemaker for and that look kind of mythical.

“Could wear something other than robes, too, then,” Dean absent-mindedly argued, still stuck on the color gleaming in the sunlight.

Cas smirked. “I could.”

But apparently, that’s where he draws the line. Dean can’t think of a single occasion where Cas has worn normal clothing. He isn’t afraid of getting them dirty, and sometimes pulls on an apron on top of them, but they’re always robes. The billowing kind, usually reserved for ceremony, or fairy tales. Always with heavy rune work.

Runes which even appear to cover the side of the fabric in contact with Cas’ body. Dean caught a glimpse of them once, when Cas actually rolled up his sleeves. What the runes mean, he can’t figure out though. They are… advanced.

Dean can’t deny robes look great on him though, even the especially heavy ones. They very much make him look like he stepped out of a myth and into a greenhouse, and in the potion shop especially, they seem imposing, grand, and somehow  _ right _ .

Still, sometimes he wonders how the guy would look in jeans and a t-shirt. But because he’s not at a point where he can imagine asking Cas out, he’s kind of glad that hasn’t happened yet.

Anyway, now Pala is trying to take off Cas’ shoe, and his eyes are blinking open. Dean hastily looks at the bird, too.

“Sorry, she does that sometimes.”

“Don’t apologize. I greatly appreciate her presence.”

“Yeah, she kind of likes you, too, I think. Haven’t seen her go that crazy over anyone but me.”

“She’s a good familiar to you.”

There’s a lull in conversation, and Pala hops to the other side of the shoe to get a better angle.

“Why do you think she chose you?”

“My charming personality, most likely.”

“Dean.”

Dean does know what he means. The process of finding a familiar would certainly be easier if the mage had any control over it. Instead, starting with their seventh birthday, they begin going to shops and fairs all over the country, until finally, a familiar decides this is a person they can complement. It’s the only thing that the scholars are pretty sure about. That the animals with slight magical traits, good intuition, and an enhanced lifespan that are apt at being familiars use this as a criterium.

“I’m seriously afraid of heights, so it was pretty clear it was probably going to be something that flies. I kind of hoped for an eagle or something.” Pala swerves to peck at a bit of exposed skin on his shin, “Hey, hey, ow! I’m glad it was you! I like crows, crows are good familiars and you’re the best.”

She cocks her head at him, with that look of almost calculating sarcasm, and he adds, “I mean, I’m pretty sure I got a crow because they’re so smart, and I wasn’t really.”

Cas looks at him in mild reprehension. “You are smart, Dean.”

“Not book-smart. Not cunning. Not even about people anymore, these days. I mean, I’m okay. I’m a gardener, and I do have good intuition for water and rocks, so it’s really not that big of a deal. But crows are the smart birds. Even regular ones. And Pala’s scary smart.”

She seems appeased by that. Fluffs her feathers, shakes them out, and goes back to pulling on Cas’ shoelace.

“She’s a good grief-bird, too.” He quietly adds after a while. “Didn’t know I’d need that. I was always so happy as a kid. Careless. Living in the moment, you know?”

Cas looks at him, and his eyes are very soft, and very sad.

“Yes. I can picture that.”

He looks away again, and for a few minutes, they sip on their beers in silence, Dean licking his lips after the taste, Cas hiding grimaces. They keep watching Pala, who has managed to undo the shoelaces, and now seems determined to pull the whole shoe off. Cas helps her a little by lifting his foot. Underneath, he’s wearing blue socks with a whimsical bee design.

“You sure love bees, don’t you?”

Cas hums an acknowledgement, but his thoughts seem far away. It takes such a long time before he speaks again, that Dean has more than two thirds of his beer finished. His voice sounds calm, but it’s the kind of careful calm he uses when a topic is deeply personal, and very difficult for him.

“My familiar was a cat. Megara, she called herself.” One of the tests familiars have to pass to qualify as such, is the ability to spell out their names by tapping on rune stones. “I called her Meg. She was orange and wild, and she had a bit of a mean streak sometimes. She was very fast, and she liked to play dumb. She loved food, and often stole from my table and then got sick from it. She always looked at me as if the mess she made was my fault. I loved her dearly.”

He understands why they would have belonged together. They sound like polar opposites.

Dean doesn’t speak, but he does move his hand a little, so that it’s resting against Cas’, palm open. Cas doesn’t move away. His voice is still steady. Collected. 

“She was also very good at rune work, when she bothered to play with the set I gave her. Even Anna could learn from her. She never cared much for plants, but every single time an ingredient for a potion was past its prime, she’d tell me. Loudly. She liked to argue with the chimes.”

He pauses. He reaches for Dean’s hand, and locks their fingers.

“She got sick when I was twenty-six. The illness wasn’t dragged out. She died before I turned twenty-seven. I miss her.”

He stops talking, and his hand tightens in Dean’s. They’re both still looking at Pala, who has abandoned the endeavor to take off Cas’s sock as well, and is rubbing her beak against it instead.

“Thanks for telling me,” Dean finally says.

Castiel nods, but he’s clearly finished talking. He raises the bottle to his lips, and this time, his face doesn’t contort.

He doesn’t let go of Dean’s hand.

 

_ And when the man he had bound himself to finally died, the god selected the next man to take his place. _

_ With time, the humble family grew large and influential, and not many of them remained where the god was bound. It did not matter to the god. It was enough to grasp hold of them once, to forge that bond once. And they all came to the place where he was one time in their lives. _

_ He grew slowly. He grew strong. _

_ He chose the brightest, the kindest, the ones who would wield the augmented powers with care. _

_ And for a while, they existed well and in harmony. _


	10. Chapter 10

It’s a special milestone in their friendship when Dean realizes he’s been to Cas’ place – horrible circumstances and all – but Cas has never been to his. It also makes him realize that compared to Cas’ cozy and kind of magical apartment, Dean’s flat is boring, and for the most part, impersonal.

So he gives it a once-over. He never lets it get particularly dirty, and there isn’t enough stuff to make it untidy, but now, he scrubs it in earnest. Wipes down every surface, does a broom ritual before vacuuming, polishes the windows until there isn’t a speck of rain residue in sight. And then, he unpacks a box of his own stuff that he hasn’t touched any more than Ben’s.

It’s his own childhood, packed squarely away. Toy druids, an old edition of a fantasy book he remembers loving more than anything, some bad drawings, and finally, his rock collection.

As a mineral mage, still having a collection of important crystals to work with goes without mentioning. And so, most stones he put together over the years – be it bought with pocket money, given to him by friends and relatives, or even found – had become the basis of what is now his mineral shed.

The rocks in here are mostly useless as far as magical components are concerned. They’re just things he picked up on the side of the road, or fished out of that creek a few miles behind their house, because they looked cool, or he liked how they fit into his hand.

Holding them now, he can clearly feel the low magical thrum of even the most inert of them, but more importantly, he can remember why he liked them.

When he puts the box away again, once more carefully sealed, it still contains his toys and his drawings and other things of emotional value that you can’t really put up in a home, but the rocks have migrated onto his bookshelf, and the book itself has gotten a place of honor amid the more recent acquisitions.

His flat is still bare, compared to Cas’ clutter. But now, it feels a little bit more like a home.

* * *

Still, actually bringing Cas here is surprisingly nerve-wracking. He mentioned it over lunch today, and Cas told him he’d love to see his home in that earnest way of his, so they agreed to meet up after their respective work shifts were finished, and drive to the other side of town together.

It feels oddly like a date, and the thought makes Dean squirm. He can’t even figure out if it’s the good or the bad kind of squirming, so he supposes even if it were a date, he wouldn’t be ready to let it be one.

He calls Cas ‘Buddy’ quite often that day, to Cas’ obvious, and somehow humbling puzzlement. But it was also the day they both agreed the hyacinth could be moved out of the sick-bed, so a little misty-eyed eye-contact probably rendered all attempts to defuse the possible romantic nature mute.

Cas, at least, isn’t acting any different than usual, and though he’s never driven in Dean’s car before, he enters it without hesitation and looks right at home there. They agree to pick up Chinese food on the way, and are still bickering over whether spring rolls needed meat or not, when they climb the stairs to Dean’s place, and it’s all so silly and beautiful and domestic that Dean no longer feels apprehensive. At least not until he’s unlocked the door and they’re standing inside.

“Yeah, it’s not much.” Dean isn’t looking at Cas, scuffing his boots together instead. “I’m hardly here.”

But Cas just puts the food bag onto the table as if he’s never done anything else, and lets Dean direct him to the proper utensil drawer. 

“The view is quite nice,” he remarks, halfway through his meat-less spring rolls. “You should put the table closer to the window.”

And later, when they’re done eating, he spends a long time looking through Dean’s bookshelf, and then a shorter, more polite time through Dean’s record collection. Which is how Dean learns Cas has no taste in good music whatsoever, and begins the education immediately with ‘Zeppelin IV’.

And then, out of nowhere, just watching Cas carefully listening to one of the songs, with his brows furrowed in concentration and nodding along slightly out of rhythm, Dean knows what he brought Cas here for. After the song has played out, he lifts the needle off the vinyl and watches the record spin soundlessly.

“Hey Cas,” he says, hears his voice be rough, but his heartbeat even. “Would you like to go through Ben’s things with me?”

After a moment, Cas hand squeezes his shoulder, and he leans into it. There’s no audible reply, but it’s answer enough.

I’m yours, he thinks in this moment, somewhat abstractly. I don’t know how that happened, but I’m yours. I’m better with you.

His breath is still steady when he crosses one of his arms over his torso and lays his hand on top of Cas’.

When they open the box, he cries, but Castiel never stops having his back.

* * *

It’s the second time Dean has woken up in Castiel’s arms, but it’s infinitely better than the first. They’re on Dean’s bed, and they’re both wearing sweatpants and one of Dean’s t-shirts each, and it’s a bit of a miracle.

Dean wasn’t as much of a mess last night as he could have been. Maybe he hadn’t made it through half the objects in the box without needing to get up and stand facing the window, his shoulders heaving, but he had managed to open it. Pull out a few objects, at least. Recount a few memories for Cas, and himself. Remember his son, and seeing more than the rest of a life that never happened. Seeing the life that did happen.

Cas had given him a moment, just looking out at the setting sun, trying to get the tears back under control. And when that only worked for a few precious moments at a time, he got up as well, and stood next to Dean. Let Dean take his hand and hold on for dear life, and eventually, let his head sink onto Cas’ shoulders.

“Enough for today?”, he asked in a soft rumble, and Dean had whispered, “Yes.”

And then, Dean had whispered, “Can you stay here, tonight?”

And Castiel had kissed the top of his head, and led him to Dean’s bedroom, as if he was the one living here.

There was no sexual component to it, even undressing in the same room. Even finally seeing Cas out of his robes and in Dean’s clothes. Just comfort, and an odd sense of domesticity. As if they’d never done anything else but get into bed together. Cas under the covers, inviting Dean to lay his head on Cas’ chest, and find some peace.

And once more, when Dean wakes up, it is still mostly dark outside, and Castiel is still asleep. They’ve shifted in the night, gotten closer. Dean’s head is nestled somewhere between Cas’ ear and his shoulder, and when he breathes in, his sleepy mind rests within the warm smell of sage and wood smoke. His lips brush the stubble on Cas’ jaw, and he presses a barely-there kiss against it. Smiles.

There were no nightmares last night, and the box is open.

Their chests and hips are only touching in a few places, but one of his arms is thrown around Cas’ torso, and rises and falls with each deep, slow breath. One of Cas’ hands is on Dean’s waist, and the other is in Dean’s hair. One of Dean’s knees is resting on Cas’ shin, warm underneath the sweatpants. It’s warm underneath the covers, but not stifling.

Safe.

That is, until Cas’ hand tightens in Dean’s hair, and his breathing goes wonky.

For one shameful second, Dean entertains the idea that Cas is having a sex-dream, and that things might take a decidedly less innocent turn than the previous night, but the whimper that punches the air is anything but erotic. Cas sounds fucking terrified, and even as Dean wonders what to do now, he starts trembling in earnest.

“Cas,” he says, and tries to rouse him, but shaking him doesn’t do much good, and now Cas’ loose grip on his waist has turned into a vise. “Cas!”

He can’t even move his head, not with Cas’ grasping fingers holding his hair in place, and when wetness begins dripping onto his cheek, he freaks out for real.

There is a thing that happens, as a water mage. As someone who understands minerals. When someone else’s tears or sweat or even other fluids touch your skin, the magical signature of it feels quite different than inorganic water. This is water that spent a while inside someone else, and if there’s one thing water does, it’s carry emotion, if only for a little while, on the tide of the minerals inside it.

And Cas is scared. He’s so fucking scared.

Dean starts pushing at him in earnest, tries to extract his hair from Cas’ fingers, to wrench his body away. Succeeds, even if it costs him a few strands of hair, and puts a few bruises on his waist. Keeps saying Cas’ name with increasing desperation.

Finally stands over Cas’ body as he near convulses on the mattress, sweat breaking forth, tears running freely. Every muscle tense, teeth gritted. Begging incoherently. Whimpering.

And Dean does the only thing he can think to do at this point. Grabs the half-full water glass, and splashes it all over Cas’ face. The wrong move, probably. Probably a fucking terrible way to be woken out of a nightmare of this category.

But he does wake up.

With a gasp, like he’s surfacing out of a long airless corridor. Half sits up, looks around wildly.

And though Dean’s by his side again in an instant, a hand gripping his t-shirt, the other one on Cas’ holding him up, at first, he doesn’t seem to recognize him, or anything about his surroundings. Which is fair, since he’s never slept here before.

“I’m still here, I’m still-...” he mutters, and the sweat that Dean feels underneath his palms is still panic, so he wraps himself around Cas the best way he can from this awkward sideways angle. Tangles his fingers through Cas’ soaked hair, and whispers against his cheek “It’s okay, it’s okay, just a nightmare, all you did was have a nightmare, it’s okay now” in a seemingly endless mantra, until finally, Cas stops shaking, and one of his hands comes to rest on Dean’s back.

“Dean,” he finally says, and Dean could weep for it. Instead, he holds him closer, for just a moment, and stifles his own tears in the mess that he’s made of Cas’ hair. Then he extricates himself. Turns away, to give them both a chance to pull themselves together.

“I was thinking breakfast,” he finally manages, looking at the sliver of gold on the horizon rather than at Cas. “If you’re hungry.”

The words, when they come, are careful again.

“Actually, if you don’t mind, I think I’d like to use your shower.”

Dean laughs, but there’s not a trace of humor in it. “Huh, yeah. I guess I pretty much soaked you through.”

“I dreamt-… I dreamt I was-…”

Dean turns around. In the light of the lamp, he can see that Castiel looks utterly lost.

“I was-…” Eye-contact, for a long while, and his explanation trails off into nothing. He’s looking for something in Dean’s eyes, and Dean has no idea if he’s giving it to Cas, or even capable of it, or what it is. It’s pleading, that look, and it has the faint traces of an apology that Dean doesn’t understand.

Abruptly, Cas turns away and runs his hand through his wet hair. It looks good, Dean notes abstractly. It looks really good like this. “It doesn’t matter,” he says, seemingly mostly to himself. “Not-… not now.”

And Dean really, really doesn’t know what to make of this. He looks away again. Doesn’t react when Cas puts a tentative hand on his shoulder.

“Thank you, Dean. You pulled me out.”

“Sure, Cas. Any time.” But it comes out weirdly toneless. Like he doesn’t mean it.

Cas takes his hand off. Goes for a light tone.

“Is it alright if I use your shower?”

Dean really wishes he could pull himself out of it as well. This is not how this morning was supposed to go.

He manages to sound a little warmer, at least, a little more genuine, when he says, “Sure. I’ll get breakfast ready.”

* * *

By the time Castiel finishes his shower, Dean has indeed managed to calm down enough to wonder what the fuck was wrong with him before. He pours out some of the seed and nuts mix for Pala, but clearly, she can tell that something isn’t right, because she mostly ignores her food, and hops around him instead.

The running water from the bathroom eventually reminds him the guy doesn’t have anything to change into, so he pulls out a clean pair of boxers and a fresh t-shirt out of a drawer, knocks on the bathroom door, and tells Cas he’s leaving them right outside, and to holler if there’s anything else he needs. It earns him a muffled ‘Thank you’, and his breathing eases a little.

He has a moderate breakfast selection, and the sizzle of well-seasoned eggs in the pan finally makes him feel somewhat normal again. Reminds him that for the first time in a while, he’s going to share breakfast with someone he’s slept with. Even if it was a platonic thing, bracketed by grief and a pretty damn bad nightmare.

He’s not sure if he might not be overstepping, but he puts on a pot of Cas’ tea as well as coffee. He doesn’t feel like he needs it today himself, surprisingly, considering the box with Ben’s things is still open on the couch, but Cas might.

The reason Dean himself reacted so strongly, he rationalizes while he siphons the leaves off and adds a dollop of honey, is probably that this, more than anything, was a reminder that most of their friendship has been about Dean. That there are obviously things Castiel is dealing with that he hasn’t told Dean about yet. Probably to spare him, to keep from triggering him.

It doesn’t feel quite right, but Dean’s inability to deal this morning probably proved it to be an accurate as well as considerate assumption.  

He’s got to do better, he tells himself, even as his heart tightens at the thought. A friendship can’t be that one-sided. Support has to go both ways.

When Cas steps out of the shower, he has put his robes back on. No sign left of that surprisingly thin, muscular body. As if he’s put a shield back on. Dean feels oddly disappointed.

But he guesses eating eggs and toast in their underwear can wait until they’re both a little more stable. Maybe then, they can eat it in bed, after a night uninterrupted by any kind of sorrow. Someday.

Despite the robes, he still looks vulnerable. His hair is toweled dry and sticks up attractively, but there are shadows around his eyes still. That same unsure look from before.

Dean puts them both out of their misery with a slightly exaggerated grin and a gesture at the table. “Come, sit down!” His carelessness sounds a little forced as well, but he doesn’t really know what to do about that. Genuine joy will probably have to wait, as well.

Cas sits down. He’s moving somewhat gingerly, and Dean vows to make that stop, even as he shovels eggs onto both their plates. Puts the pan into the sink and sits down opposite of him.

“It smells wonderful. Thank you, Dean.”

Dean tries to keep his voice firm as he casually says, “I made some tea. I mean, if you want it.”

There’s nothing casual about it, and they both know it. Dean watches Cas’ Adam’s apple go up and down a few times, before he says, sounding rough again suddenly, “Yes. I suppose I could use some acceptance today.”

He pours himself a cup, and Dean tries not to watch him as he starts poking at his own eggs. For a while, they eat in silence. Cas sips the tea, and Dean sips some coffee.

Eventually, Castiel puts his cup down.

“I’m sorry, Dean. I didn’t mean to scare you like this.”

“Don’t apologize.” It comes out sharper than he intended, and he follows it with a much softer, “Not for this.”

“Still. It wasn’t what you needed.”

“Screw what I need. Cas, you’ve got to know you can talk to me. About anything.”

“I confess, sometimes I think about it. If it wouldn’t be fairer.”

“Of course it would be. I’ve got my shit to deal with, and if anyone knows it’s not a bucket of fun, it’s you. But just because I’m not at a hundred percent, doesn’t mean you have to drown in your own stuff all alone. That’s not what friendship is, man. It can’t just be about me.”

“I understand.”

“I’m just saying. If I can confront even half of the things in that box-… the only reason for that is you, man. I kinda owe you. And I want to help.”

“I appreciate that, Dean.”

The sentiment is genuine, that much is unmistakable. But it’s also pretty damn clear Castiel is done talking about the subject.

 

_ The invisible god and the family he had bound himself to flourished for a long time. They house they had built around him became large and influential, and the magic flew strong into the endeavours of the family.  _

_ But eventually, inevitably, he began to die. _

_ He noticed he no longer grew. The elements which had flown to and from him naturally became more difficult to influence. It took longer to wake from the winters; the summers burned him.  _

_ And the man he had bound himself to died earlier rather than living longer. _

 


	11. Chapter 11

There is an idea that has been nagging at Dean for a while now. It’s potentially stupid, and potentially hurtful, but it won’t let go of him. And since he experienced in person that Cas’ nightmares are of a whole new category than even Dean’s, the plan has taken on a whole new urgency.

So when Cas tells him it’s probably better they don’t hang out on Saturday, because he’s caught some kind of bug, Dean takes the opportunity for what it is.

Fact is, he can’t get Cas a new familiar.

It isn’t forbidden, and in some cultures even the norm to find a second one should the first die before their time. Normally, familiars are supposed to accompany their mage throughout the mage’s entire life, and accomplish this by binding their life essence together. Which is why, should that thread be severed, a part of the magic previously accessible to the mage is lost forever. Not to mention it’s beyond painful. Dean has some experience with loss, now, but the mere thought of losing Pala on top of everything is enough to make him spend a good half-hour hunched over a toilet seat.

Cas did not get a new familiar. Probably because he’s part of a familial tradition which does not believe in the replacement of what should have lasted a lifetime. Or because it feels wrong to him as a person. Or because he just couldn’t find one.

Briefly, Dean considers how powerful Cas must have been back then, if he still has the kind of abilities he does now, diminished and sadder. He must have been a mage to behold indeed. It’s almost laughable that he’s even spending time with Dean, who’s so far below his skill level even now.

But Castiel isn’t the type to judge people by their magical inclinations.

And if he won’t talk to Dean about what is haunting him, there is exactly one thing Dean can think of to make it better. It’s actually the fact that Cas has fallen sick again that makes him think of it. Normally, familiars also help stabilize the immune system, which in Cas’ case seems to be a little wobbly.

Now, what he’s about to do can’t fix that. But he thinks it could help in so many other ways.

It’s tougher than he thought.

For example, he stands in front of the guinea pigs for a long time, even though he’s already made up his mind over which pet to get Cas. He’d probably be delighted over a few of those little fellows. But guinea pigs need more caretaking than they are capable of taking care of you.

And then it’s tough, because there are just so many of them, crying and meowing and even purring, and Dean’s not really that much of a cat person – in fact he’d probably still be allergic to them if his mom hadn’t dragged him to a healer who’d cured him of that with a long series of absolutely disgusting potions – but they’re cute. And cuddly. And he could picture any one of them rubbing up against Cas’ feet.

He wishes he’d been allowed to bring Pala in here, but familiars tend to upset less magically inclined animals, so she had to stay outside, guarding his car. It’s probably better, because it’s the kind of place where rescue cats get to roam freely and only small vulnerable things in danger of getting eaten by them are put in cages. So he’s surrounded by a loud and warm mass of fluffy things ranging from kitten to tomcat the size of a lion cub (or is that a lion cub?), and while there are worse things than having six of them climb him at once, it doesn’t help him make a decision.

He’s this close to squeezing his eyes shut and just grabbing the first cat he gets his hands on, when he notices her.

Sitting in a corner, half-hidden, is a young cat. She’s not quite a kitten anymore – a lot bigger than the hand-size one that’s currently kneading its tiny claws ineffectively into Dean’s jeans – but she can’t be very old. She’s pitch-black, and her eyes are blue and wide. She’s just sitting there, tail curled around her paws, and watching the rest of them.

Watching Dean. She gives him one, slow blink, and tilts her head a little.

Two minutes later, having carefully extricated himself from the others, he’s asking the shopkeeper if he can show her to his familiar real quick.

The shopkeeper – or at least the employee currently in the cat zone, is a middle-aged lady chewing gum and seemingly unaffected by the cuteness around her She skeptically looks him up and down for a moment, then apparently deems him trustworthy. “Just stay where I can see you.”

But when he goes to pick the little cat up, she holds him back with furrowed brows. “Your familiar isn’t a cat, right? ‘Cause that never works.”

“No, she’s a crow. And the cat isn’t for me, it’s for a friend. Who used to have a cat familiar.” One of her drawn-on eyebrows slowly rises to meet her short bangs, and he once more wonders if he isn’t making a huge mistake. He babbles on, “But we’re close, so it’ll have to get along with my familiar, too.”

The shopkeeper chews her gum for a very long time, just looking at him. But finally, she shrugs and steps aside. “It’s a she.”

Which matches the feeling Dean got from looking at her.

The other cats and kittens are still vying for his attention, and he allows himself one sappy moment of wishing them all very loving homes, when he finally approaches the little black cat.

“Hey you,” he carefully says as he crouches down. “Do you have a name?”

The shopkeeper, who’s obviously still watching him, pipes up, “She’s not magical or anything. Just a cat. Wasn’t even interested in taking the familiar test, like most of the regular cats. So just a number for now.”

“Okay then, little cat. How would you feel about coming outside for me for a bit to meet my familiar? Just to see if you get along. I really hope Pala has no problems with cats or else this will be a whole different problem, but we’ve really got to see if you can imagine having her around, because she’s definitely not going anywhere. Ever. Not if I have anything to say about it.”

The cat blinks again, then slowly gets up, and walks towards Dean’s outstretched hands.

“You’re a smart one, aren’t you? A really smart cat. Just wait until you meet Cas, you’ll get along so well, he’s crazy smart, too.” And he has hair the same color the exact same color as the fluffy little thing now sniffing Dean’s palm. And really similar eyes. And mannerism. Though Cas probably won’t lick his hand unprompted.

Since she’s not running for the hills, he decides now is probably the best opportunity to scoop her up. She’s very soft, and small, and her little heart flutters against his skin.

He really, really hopes Pala likes her.

She only struggles a little as he carefully carries her past the other cats, and settles down entirely when he holds her to his chest. “You’re a very good cat,” he mutters. “Cas is going to love you.”

The shopkeeper is following him with her eyes, but at least not physically, and thankfully, Pala, who has been circling the car, is right there the second he steps out into the street.

He’s tempted to hold the little black cat out to her Simba style, but figures that would probably rather disturb Cas’ potential new pet, and instead only turns them both towards the bird. Pala takes another few turns – and it sort of looks like she’s trying to appear nonchalant, because it’s pretty clear she’s noticed the little black bundle in Dean’s arms, and only after this casually lands on a trashcan.

Dean dutifully doesn’t call her out on the dramatics and walks over there to present the cat.

At first, Pala flaps her wings a few times, obviously outraged at this turn of events, and he can feel the little cat arch her back in alarm even in his arms. Which-… doesn’t bode well, and he can feel his heart sinking.

But then, Pala settles down, and really looks at the cat. It’s the kind of look she gives people important to Dean, when she meets them for the first time. Calculating. Careful. That way of looking into the very soul of the person only familiars have, to judge if they have any foul intentions towards their mage.

The little cat remains alert, but her fur settles down again. Finally, after this soul-search has gone on for too long, she lets out a rather pitiful tiny meow, and Dean has the brief thought that he would die for her, and then Pala caws once, executes something that looks disturbingly like an approving nod, and takes off to survey the neighborhood again.

Dean breathes out in relief, and scratches the little cat’s head.

“Okay, little one,” he whispers downwards at the black bundle in his arms, “looks like you’re about to find a new home.”

She starts purring.

* * *

The shopkeeper is pleased to find that Dean came prepared. The thought that he might not even find a good cat for Cas hadn’t really crossed his mind, so he’d done some shopping before even going to the shelter. Cat carrier included.

There was only one point of discussion, and that was when she learned that Dean and the little cat’s future owner both owned greenhouses, and that she’d probably be free to roam in them.

“You are aware that there are a couple of plants cats really shouldn’t come near. Like, lilies are poisonous, for example.”

“Already way ahead of you. I’ve been working on both our plants to take some precautions against that, and Castiel is a super powerful herbalist and potion maker who’s worked with a cat before, obviously, even if that one was actually fully magical. We’ll definitely find a way to make sure nothing will happen to this little one.” He can’t resist scratching between the cat’s tiny ears again, and they lie flat in a way that distinctly reminds him of Yoda.

The shopkeeper, however, stills.

“Is that-… Castiel Novak? Down on Orchard Road?”

“Oh, you know him? Yeah, that’s him.”

She nods slowly, takes a quick look at the cat, then back at Dean. Then back at the cat. Lingers there.

“You say his familiar died?”

Dean narrows his eyes. He’s pretty sure he knows where this is going and while it’s great this lady obviously gives a shit about whether or not the little cat ends up in a loving home, he kind of resents her for the implication. Still, he keeps his voice carefully careless.

“I just said he didn’t have one anymore, but yes, that’s what happened.”

She looks at him now, searching for something. It eerily reminds Dean of the earlier scene between Pala and the little cat.

Finally, she asks, “You will also take care of this cat?” And he nods.

“Yeah, definitely. I mean, my garden market is just across the street from his shop.” And when she still looks like she’s about to tear the papers up and take the cat back, he adds, trying his hardest not to grit his teeth, “But Cas didn’t do anything to his cat, if that’s what you mean. He would never. Seriously, he’s the biggest softie you can possibly imagine. You should see the way he is with plants, and with-…” …with Dean, actually, “…other things that need taking care of. Trust me. He’s good.”

“I know he is. He always was a good kid.”

She leaves it at that and complete the transaction, with the cat sniffing out the carrier on the counter. But when Dean leaves, having sneakily trapped the cat inside, she’s still frowning after him.

* * *

Presenting the cat to Cas becomes a lot more challenging than he thought.

He’s trying not to let that judgmental lady get to him too much – and it’s not like he himself has any bad suspicions about Cas’ familiar’s untimely death – but she has sort of shaken some doubt loose in him.

It’s not that he doesn’t trust Cas with the cat. It’s not that at all. He wasn’t lying when he told the shopkeeper Castiel would be a perfect care-taker. It’s that he’s suddenly not half as sure his idea was any good.

That low, nagging voice inside him that kept him from pursuing this particular plan for so long is back full-force, and it’s telling him getting suddenly faced with a pet might really not be the way to go. Especially not a pet that might shake loose some buried trauma, which losing one’s familiar undoubtedly is.

Maybe Dean should have gone with the guinea pigs instead.

But looking at the little black cat that looks so much like Cas, he can’t imagine any other creature being half as right for him. She’s currently threatening to push the jar of honey off the table by rubbing against it purring, for crying out loud.

In the end, he gets to push the crucial moment back due to Cas continuing to be out of commission for another week and a half. Douchey brother Gabriel doesn’t show up this time, so he even keeps the shop closed, and only does minimum work on his plants and bees. Dean visits him, of course, though Cas seems a little uncomfortable with it.

He looks pitiable. Much like that other time he was too sick to even move properly. Dean shoos him back to bed whenever he finds him out and about, and takes care of the greenhouse. Someday, he’ll have to learn how to deal with the bees, too.

Dean really wishes regular cats were as good as boosting the immune system as magical ones, but least they can’t do any harm. Dean has read up on it, actually, and has found out that even non-magical cats’ purrs are at a frequency beneficial to bone-growth and both mental and physical health. And he definitely knows Cas doesn’t have any allergies, so that won’t be an issue.

“Just don’t want to overwhelm him when he’s weak, you know,” he tells the little cat, who has made a home out of Dean’s apartment in the meantime.

He’s almost reluctant to give her up at this point, even though, of course, he’ll still see her all the time once she’s with Cas. She even gets along with Pala, apart from a few minor spats that will probably resolve themselves as soon as the little cat has more space to roam than just Dean’s living room and bedroom. She’s dead afraid of the bathroom, for some reason, and he’ll probably never forgive himself for accidentally locking her in there that one full day.

Still, he waits another day once Cas is healthy again. And then another.

And then he pulls himself together, and figures he might as well get it over with, because it’s not like he can give the little cat back. Or wants to. Or could ever consider doing so. If Cas really can’t deal with her, he’ll just keep her in this apartment. Which would suck for her and Pala, but Dean, at least, could get used to a waking up with a little purring ball of fur on his stomach.

But on Thursday, he drinks a big cup of Cas’ grief tea – more for courage than anything else – and even though it’s not explicitly there for that, the familiar taste helps him settle long enough to coax the little cat into the carrier and put her into his car.

Cas isn’t waiting for him outside the green houses today, which means he’s probably either still asleep or working on his own plants already, probably to make up for lost time. And Dean is really, really tempted to just leave the little cat in her carrier until lunch, or even let her roam free through Dean’s own greenhouses, but this is probably the bravest he’ll ever be. And it’s not like the time of day will change anything about the potential triggering of trauma.

So, with a more than pounding heart, he lets the little cat out of the carrier, and despite her sulking over having been trapped in there, takes her into his arms, squeezes her close once, and knocks on Cas’ door.

“Come in, Dean,” he hears from inside, and is glad to note that Cas sounds fully functional again, cheerful, even. No more remnants of fatigue like yesterday.

“Okay, little cat,” he whispers at the squirming thing. “Here goes everything.”

He pushes the door open with one hand, and the chimes sound a little less horrifyingly depressing today, which he takes as a sign of encouragement. 

It’s all dry heat and dim lights as usual, but the cat doesn’t seem to balk at that at least. Instead, it goes still in Dean’s arms and climbs to the best possible vantage point. Dean keeps a hand on her to make sure she doesn’t go running off and get lost in the labyrinth of shelves before he has even introduced her to Cas, but all she does is walk along his shoulders and check out the situation.

Cas isn’t behind the counter, which means he’s probably already brewing something and needs to focus on it entirely. Dean comes to a stop before rounding that last corner.

“Hey, Cas,” he calls, trying to sound cheerful instead of like a nervous guy possibly about to shock his best friend into some sort of traumatic flashback. “You got a moment?”

“I’ll be right with you, Dean, just give me a moment to finish this extraction.”

The little cat is really curious now, and Dean can barely stop her from using his shoulders as a jumping board for higher vantage points.

“Uhm, just so you know, I brought you something. And it’s totally okay if you don’t like it or want it.”

“I’m sure I’ll be happy to eat any type of breakfast you’ve brought.”

“Oh. Uhm.” Maybe he should have also brought a couple of croissants. “It’s not food. Sorry.”

The little cat is squirming for good in his hands now, and even biting at them mildly. It seems she really, really wants to investigate where that other voice comes from.

“Will you just stay still for another minute, please,” he begs her as quietly as possible, but she absolutely ruins his masterplan by letting out a long, wailing meow.

And just like that, Castiel is standing in front of him. His hands are sooty, and his eyes are wide. They’re looking right at the little cat.

“Uhm… surprise?”

The little cat uses this exact moment to finally wind her way out of Dean’s grip and gracefully lands on the floor with a muted thump. They both watch as she slowly walks closer to Cas, half cautious, half faux-casual. Eventually, she’s walked an entire circle around him, observing, ears on alert. Then, she suddenly lunches forward and bumps her little head against Cas’ leg. And begins purring.

Dean is still holding his breath, gaze darting back to Castiel now. Who is still looking at the little cat. For a moment Dean has the utterly absurd thought that if Cas had cat-ears, they’d be slightly flat and twitchy now, too. Then Cas very slowly sinks to his haunches, as to not startle the cat.

“Hello,” he says very softly, and holds his hand out for her to sniff at. Realizes it’s full of soot and quickly wipes it at his robes. Then extends it again. The little cat stops rubbing against his knee and puts her tiny pink nose against Cas’ fingertips. Sniffs once, twice. Then pushes her head into Cas’ palm, purring even louder.

“Oh, you are wonderful,” Cas mutters more to himself than to the cat, and certainly not to Dean. “What a good little cat. What lovely little paws.”

He cautiously picks her up with both hands, and holds her out in front of his face to properly inspect her in the dim light. She puts a paw on his nose.

“Does she have a name?”

It takes a moment until Dean realizes this question is actually directed at him.

“Oh. It’s Sage,” he says distractedly, only to realize that was absolutely not the way this was supposed to go. And that he never even consciously picked out a name for her. He corrects, “I mean, she doesn’t have a name. It is a she.”

But Castiel, still looking at the little cat up close while safely holding her up with both hands, only nods.

“Sage is a very good name for this little cat.”

Dean gulps. The dry heat of the room is getting to him. “She’s yours.”

And now Cas does look away from the little cat, a single, startled glance that turns into burning eyes.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I got her for you. I’m sorry if that’s weird or anything. I just-… Wanted to do something good? For you? I mean, all you ever do is try to help me through my shit. And you’ve clearly got-… I just mean, maybe you could use someone on four legs to talk to. It’s-… I hope this is okay. It’s fine if it’s not, you can just tell me. If I overstepped or made things worse or-… You can tell me.”

“If I could not take care of this little cat, you would give her back?”

“What? Oh. Uhm, I was thinking more like, I would keep her. If that wouldn’t be too hard for you. To still see her. I should have gotten you a guinea pig.”

“No, no. Dean, I-… I do like guinea pigs, but this is-… I’m just asking: She’ll be allowed over to your greenhouses and gardens as well? To walk around there?”

“Definitely. I’ve even been cat-proofing the place. Yours, too. Maybe you can help with that. The minerals in the ground should definitely help keep her away from plants that aren’t good for her, but maybe you have some ideas, too?”

“I can think of a few things. And you’ll help take care of her? When I’m-… not well enough. You’ll take care of her?”

“Sure, Cas.”

“She’ll be our cat?”

It was not the plan.

“If that’s what you want, absolutely. Gladly. I mean, she is a pretty damn great little cat. And super low-maintenance. She was even okay at my apartment. Surprisingly few arguments with Pala. She approves, too.”

“Then, thank you, Dean. This is-… this is so considerate I have no words for it.”

“Seriously? You’re okay with it?”

“More than okay. This is a very lovely cat.”

“She looks like you.” He definitely didn’t mean to say that. “Uhm,” he stammers, then figures it can’t get much more humiliating, and he might as well elaborate. “That’s why I chose her. Her hair and her eyes. And sometimes she even blinks like you.”

“I think,” Castiel looks contemplative now at the little thing that’s now sniffing along a row of vials, “I think she’s the sort of cat who might have chosen you instead.”

“The lady in the shop said she wasn’t magical. Not even interested in taking the familiar test.”

“Not interested doesn’t mean without inclination. I think she doesn’t want to be a familiar. Which is very respectable.” He talks as if the cat can understand him. “It’s quite astounding she came with you at all.”

“Uhm, by your logic it really doesn’t, because I’ve been pretty damn straightforward that she’d live with someone else.”

“Did you want to stay with Dean?”

The little cat nuzzles Cas’ paw again, and gives him a slow blink. For the moment, Dean gets ignored entirely, and if the scene in front of him were any less touching, he’d be a little hurt by that.

“I cannot accept you as a familiar, little cat. Sage. I hope this is in both of our interests.”

“Why not, though? I mean, it wasn’t my intention, but if that’s what happened?”

“You know why.”

“She could help you. Even more than a regular cat. Regular cats are pretty damn awesome already, but just think of your health?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, half the time I’ve known you, you’ve been seriously physically exhausted. Like your immune system is constantly battling something. It’s part of the reason you keep it so warm here, right? That bacteria and viruses stand less of a chance? Let’s face it, Cas, your immune system is shot to hell, and I’m pretty sure a familiar would help stabilize it.”

“I’m not looking for a familiar, Dean. I’m very happy for this companion. But I’m afraid I couldn’t bear anything more than that.”

“Oh. Yeah, of course. I get that.”

“Dean.”

“Yeah?”

“You did a very good thing for me today. The absolute best kind of thing.”

“Yeah, you are a pretty damn awesome cat, aren’t you, Sage?”

She just looks at him with those big blue eyes for a moment and tilts her head.

 

_ The god did not wish to kill, but he wanted to die less. _

_ He knew the other gods no longer knew of him. _

_ He knew no one could see him. _

_ He knew he would not be remembered and he could not bear it. _

_ So he bound his life force to another young man and grieved him when he died. _

_ And then he chose the next. _

_ And slowed his inevitable fading from the world. _


	12. Chapter 12

The little cat may not actually be Castiel’s familiar, but she does become an essential part of their routine, and a frequent source of those quiet smiles Dean loves so much.

The lady at the shop really needn’t have worried about it, because integrating Sage into the world of dangerous plants happens almost seamless and without a hitch. Castiel does insist on brewing her a special potion that should inoculate her against poison by pollen, and though she turns up her nose at it, she does lap up the water he puts it into. Cas also collects samples of any and all plants that might become dangerous to her both in Dean’s greenhouse and his own, and creates simple poison antidotes out of them, which he keeps neatly stacked in small green vials in a shelf especially cleared right by the counter of his shop.

It also turns out to be a market he previously hadn’t thought to tap into, and while requests for ridiculously powerful and extremely expensive potions keep rolling in online, Dean’s idea of also offering these simple antidotes apparently takes off rather well. Soon after Dean has helped put together a list of plants potentially dangerous for different household animals, be it familiars or pets, it becomes clear it makes sense to devote an entire row to those plants, for Castiel to take snippings whenever he receives a desperate call for it. And apparently, those come.

“By all means, Dean, you are the one who had this idea. I don’t feel entirely comfortable not sharing my winnings with you,” Castiel says one day, while he takes another sample of tiger lily.

But Dean just waves him off. “’I’m just glad there are going to fewer poisoned kittens out there, and that I’ll have had something to do with it. Besides, you do all the actual work.”

* * *

All in all, they reach a sort of comfortable stand-still. Regarding all things, really.

Their businesses are established, going well, and now have the added benefit of mutual support. Their plants are taken care of, and while the number that can’t be nursed back to full health is not zero, it is small. And even though late April brings an unforeseen cold front and four separate night freezes, the casualties are few, and the bees were smart enough to stay in their warm hive.

Dean still wakes up in a cold sweat sometimes, and though he hasn’t packed Ben’s box away, he also hasn’t looked through it further, let alone invited Castiel back into his home for support while and after doing so.

He’s thought about it, with increasing frequency even. Sometimes, it has even evolved into full-grown fantasies that involve more creative uses of beds than sleeping. Sometimes, those fantasies have permeated his dreams, too, turning them pleasant and heated, and leaving him aroused and slightly ashamed.

They aren’t technically touching less, since Castiel had that nightmare in Dean’s bed. There are the innocent little brushes of hands, still. Their shoulders still bump quite often when they sit or stand side by side. But sometimes, Castiel steps back now. With great subtlety, and after having gravitated right into Dean’s orbit himself, but he does pull back a little. 

It accounts for the shame Dean feels. That feeling that maybe, Castiel isn’t as open towards turning their relationship romantic at some point as Dean is. That maybe, he only now noticed how his physical affections could be interpreted, and that he is now determined to stop leading Dean on.

Unfortunately – or maybe fortunately, after all? – the way Dean catches him looking at him sometimes tells an entirely different story.

There is a small cat now, running around Dean’s greenhouse or Cas’s shop and greenhouse, and she may or may not be magical. There are days when they are almost certain she is, and there are days when the mere thought seems absurd. Like that one day when Dean can barely plug her off the tree growing through the front of Cas’ house, just as she is about to eat one of the few leaves that have survived the frost.

Other than instances such as this – Dean didn’t even tell Cas where he’d found her, just that she was about to bite into a fairly dangerous plant; Dean thinks about warding the tree like he has done most of his plants.  – she is a treasure, if only for the unmistakable feeling of hominess she brings to every place she’s at.

What does change, however, is their evening routine. They do still take care of each other’s plants, and often work until it’s quite late to catch up on things they didn’t get around to doing during the day. But instead of Dean bringing deliciously fat-soaked fast food and Castiel providing a healthy addition to it, Cas has begun insisting they go out for dinner.

The first time he suggests it, Dean honestly for almost a full minute believes he’s just gotten asked out. And feels okay about it. A sudden flutter of nerves, but of the good kind. It helps that Castiel himself looks a little shy about it when he suggests, “this place I read about online. I’m afraid I haven’t been taking full advantage of living near a city which offers so much culinary variety, and I was thinking it might be a nice change in pace for you as well if you accompanied me.”

Through the entire sermon, he has kept his eyes on what his hands are doing, which is weigh exact portions of lemon thyme ground to a powder. Exact, exact portions. He’s using a set of scales that might have gotten here with the founding of his shop, but Dean still has the feeling there isn’t a single powdery flake of difference between the small jars he fills them into.  

“Admit it, you’re only using me for my car,” he makes himself say, half trying to keep himself from smiling like an idiot, half suddenly even more fascinating by the sight of those careful hands.

“Yes. That is the only reason I’m asking you to come,” Cas deadpans. “And before you ask, yes, they do serve meat in this restaurant.”

In the end, they take a wrong turn twice, and then get lost after finally finding a parking space. At which point Dean’s amusement over this is verging on slipping into hunger rage territory, because Cas asked him before lunchtime, and so he only ate a serving of fries, which is very little, even if the salt really does feel quite delicious on his tongue. And now, he’s ravenous.

“I really am quite sorry, Dean, I’m sure it must be here somewhere,” Cas is saying for the third time, and by now, Dean is too irritable to do much else in reply but grunt.

“Aha!” he finally intones as the glowing sign of a bar catches his eye, and points at it. “Let’s go there.”

“This is not the restaurant I had in mind.”

“No offense, Cas, but I’m starving. And bars usually serve burgers. Or nachos, at the very least.”

Castiel looks a little downtrodden at the thought, and Dean stops walking towards the inviting darkness. “Okay, listen. If you don’t want to, that’s fine. We can keep looking. But this place is starting to sound more and more like its name, and honestly, I’m pretty sure that means better attire than either one of us is wearing.”

“What’s wrong with my robes?”

Exasperated, Dean throws his hands up. 

“The place is called ‘Elusive’, and we haven’t even been able to find it. It stands to reason someone cast a cloaking spell over it. Maybe painted it with some minerals that make solid stuff surprisingly hard to find. Or just built it somewhere very hard to reach unless you’re already initiated into whatever elite is used to dining there. And I’m wearing jeans and flannel. And your robes are-… they look good, don’t get me wrong, Cas, but it’s pretty obvious you’ve been wearing them to work. And they’re not exactly the latest fashion, neither of the conservative kind nor the more modern.”

“Oh.”

And damnit, Dean does not like the look on his face. “Maybe we can go there some other time,” he says, a bit gentler. “But right now, I think this place right there looks kind of great. And we definitely won’t get kicked out the second we step foot into it.”

Gravely, Castiel nods. “All right then, Dean. I trust your judgement.”

Which sounds like, “Don’t tell me you’ve never had burgers in a dive bar.”

“I won’t tell you, then.”

For a second, Dean even forgets to walk to the inviting glow of the bar. 

“Honestly, what did you do in all your years at the academy?”

“Graduate with honors, having published articles over six independent studies?

“Wasted youth, is what that is.”

Castiel’s smile turns a little bit sad. “Yes, I’m starting to think so, too.”

“I was kidding, Cas.”

“I wasn’t. I’m beginning to think I’ve wasted a lot of time that I could have spent feeling-… less lonely.”

“Okay, you’re being way too tragic for me to be able to handle on an empty stomach.”

“I apologize. It does look very warm in there.”

The bar is called ‘Iron Will’ and surprisingly, the inside of the bar is a bit posher than Dean would have expected. There are several fireplaces, all lit, and on the largest, there is a large cauldron dispensing quite delicious aromas. The booths are a dark red leather, a little worn but not sat through yet, and there are wrought iron fixtures all over the place, adding a little bit of a gothic feel to the place.

“Okay,” he proclaims as he plops down into a very comfortable booth, “your dive bar education will have to wait.”

Castiel gingerly sits down opposite him. He looks surprisingly right here, framed by a pair of wrought iron angel’s wings as he is, and for a moment, all Dean can do is stare as he gets comfortable, looking around with obvious curiosity.

“This does not qualify?”

“Nope, I’m pretty sure this may not be as ‘elusive’ as other restaurants, but it’s certainly not going to be cheap. Hopefully, still dripping in fat, though. Might get some good IPAs here, too, so I’m really not complaining.”

“Yes, it’s quite nice, here. I like it. I especially like that you are surrounded by vines.”

Dean looks behind him, and indeed, apparently his part of the booth is decorated by growing floral décor, made of the same dark iron that is forming Castiel’s wings. It’s impressive work.

“Whoever designed this was a pretty good metal worker, angel.”

“I’m sorry, is that a flirtation?”

“Look behind you.”

He does. 

“Oh. Well, I’ve always wanted wings. Though I, of course, have barely any inclination towards wind magic.”

“Probably better that way, I wouldn’t be able to follow you. I’m terrified of heights.”

“Ah.”

“We should go looking for a menu.”

“Menu’s right here, gents,” a smoky dark woman’s voice says. She’s an impressive figure, with wide hips and strong arms clearly defined against what looks like some type of dark grey armor, perfectly molded to her stature. It lies like smoke over her olive skin. She is holding out what looks like actual bronze plates, the words stenciled in and inlaid with a different, darker metal.

“Okay, so I’m guessing you’re the owner?”

“An astute observation, but actually, I co-own with my brother.”

“It’s very beautiful, here,” Castiel says, and her gaze falls on the wings behind him for a moment. Something flickers in her eyes, but she hides it behind a generous arch of a generous eyebrow, and simply says, “I agree.”

It’s all turning a bit odd, and a little ominous, so Dean grabs the menus from her hands – noting she is wearing what looks like copper spires around her ring fingers that pass her short nails, and says, “So, how does this work?” Because it really doesn’t look like just one menu, it looks like each plate has only one item on it.

“You choose your meal, and lay the corresponding plate face-down here on the table.” She taps at a small bronze space laid into the wood at the end of the table. Maybe it’s a trick of the light, but there seems to be a spark where her fingertip touches the metal. Actually, from what he’s seen so far, it probably isn’t a trick of the light.

Castiel actually leans forward. “This is very impressive. Is it mimetic magic?”

Her smile is almost predatory.

“It is. Metal calls to metal. We have a whole wall of plates that bear the impression of whatever our customers choose, sorted by table.”

“You can do mimetic magic, and you run a bar?” Dean says before he can decide that it’s probably a very bad idea to piss off a mage as powerful as this. She rounds her blazing eyes on him.

“Yes. It’s a very lucrative bar.”

The threat to Dean’s purse is clear, and he gulps.

“I don’t see drinks on these menus,” Castiel pipes up. Apparently, he’s been studying the bronze plates.

“You can order those at the bar, the old-fashioned way. Too much variety. We’d just keep losing the plates.”

“Thank you.”

“Maria.”

An almost disappointingly mundane name for such an impressive person, but on her lips, it doesn’t sound any less grand than the insane names the more conservative families favor.

“Thank you, Maria. My name is Castiel.”

Like, for example, Castiel. Who manages to make Maria’s name sound far worthier than his own. Dean shakes his head and grabs the plates back to look through them himself.

“Oh thank the stars, you actually have meat.”

“We’re fire mages. We like charring things.”

“Cas doesn’t.”

“Yes, but he’s different, isn’t he?”

There is that strange flicker again, just for a moment.

“Damn right he is. He’s pretty damn unique.”

He smiles at Cas, too fondly, maybe, and a tad too long, but it does earn him a smile back, so that’s worth it. He almost misses Maria leaving, but she taps on his shoulder once before doing so. He clears his throat.

“So, what drink can I get you?”

“Nothing too strong. A light cider, maybe.”

“Okay, coming right up.”

Dean taps the table once, and puts his choice – the roasted ribs with barbecue sauce – onto the bronze plate, then goes over to the counter. Which is easily as impressive as the entire rest of the bar. The wrought iron holding the myriad of bottles is anything but simple shelves, and at parts so delicate it’s astounding it can hold anything up at all. It looks like chaos, in the best way. Entropy given form. The counter itself is made to looks like wreathing snakes that at the sides climb up towards the bottles. There is something eerie about it, something strange and alive, though, of course, nothing is moving. It’s easily one of the most awesome things Dean has ever seen.

He notices the man behind the counter far later. Part of the reason for it is obviously that Dean just stood there gaping at the set-up for a good couple of minutes, but the other reason is that he is small. Not physically so, at least not overly. A little shorter than Castiel, who is still by rights a tall guy. But there is something quiet about him. The severe cut of his cheekbones, his dark hair cropped short, and especially his intense almost black eyes under strong eyebrows should by all rights give him more presence than even the wrought iron, but he is so still, so composed, that he has seemed like part of the scenery, until the second Dean notices him.

“Oh, uhm, hi!” he intones, somewhat awkwardly. “That’s quite a bar you’ve got there!”

The man doesn’t respond, letting Dean’s words tapper out into awkward silence that make him suddenly aware of the fact that there’s no music in this bar. Instead, he regards Dean for a moment longer, then calls, “Eli,” and walks away without so much as an extra nod in Dean’s direction. His strides are long, and stiff, and Dean wonders how on earth he could ever have missed him, because that is one captivating presence. A little scary. But captivating nonetheless.

He is replaced by a ruddy-cheeked youth, slender and pale and a little gawky, but in a sweet way. His smile is very wide and astoundingly genuine after that strange show.

“So, I hear this is where we can get ourselves some drinks, huh?”, Dean says, leaning on his forearms on the counter. He is astounded to hear his own voice sound kind of flirty. He hasn’t flirted with anyone since he came here, unless you count Cas. And in Cas’ case, flirting doesn’t seem like the right word. Can it be called flirting when every word is also emotionally charged? Can it be called flirting if it’s your only friend whom you’re kind of terribly in love with at this point?

But the guy behind the counter is blushing, and his eyes flick away shortly, and it’s satisfying in its own way.

“Yes, this is the place,” he says, and his voice is a little deeper than Dean expected, and it’s really not bad at all. And Dean has absolutely zero interest in leaving here with anyone but Cas, but it also reminds him that once, before his life turned to shit, he had game. And that it probably would have been quite easy to bury his grief in some willing body or other, instead of investing all of it into a garden market.

He also finds he’s quite glad to have invested in the garden market, and turns his smile friendly instead.

“Anything you can recommend? I’m here with the angel, he says he wants a cider, but maybe you’ve got a better idea?”

Eli’s eyes flit to Castiel, who is perfectly framed by the wrought iron wings from this point of view, and his blush, too, fades. He doesn’t look too disappointed either, Dean is relieved to find.

“Hm, I can’t get a good reading of him from over here, but I think I have something he might like.”

“You read auras?”

“Yes. Though some people are tougher than others, and there’s something muted about his. Probably just the distance; I’m nowhere near as good as Joaquin is.”

“That the guy who just left without a word?”

The creepy guy, more like. Dean isn’t exactly a social butterfly anymore these days, but that guy-... 

“Don’t take it personally. He doesn’t like chatting.”

“Is he Maria’s brother?”

“Yup, the one and only. They’re a fearsome duo, let me tell you. I’ve worked here for few months now, but I still can’t believe I get to be surrounded by that much talent.”

“Well, speaking as a water mage, you seem to have a pretty good inclination towards fluids.”

He’s watching the effortless way Eli has been grabbing different bottles, and it’s clear he has perfect control over the different beverages. There isn’t as much as a measuring cup in sight, and he doesn’t need to look at what he’s doing. The fluid just stops flowing when he wills it to, and it makes the entire affair quite elegant to watch.

“Oh yes. Alcohols in particular. Not the kind of thing you want your parents discovering, let me tell you. But they’re easier than pure water. And I’ve got a good memory. I guess together with the aura thing, I seemed like a good enough choice as barkeep. Joaquin might still be on the fence, though.”

Dean smiles at him, almost absent-minded now, and is a little startled to note that the guy’s eyes look a lot older than he would have thought at first glance. There are subtle lines around them, and soft creases on his forehead, too. He might even be a bit older than Dean.

“What are you making?”

“Something light.”

Indeed, even from his vantage point leaning slightly across the counter, Dean can tell it has that kind of feeling about it. Eli seems to be done with it, after just a small spritz of actual lemon.

“Why light?”

“Well, you did say cider. And his wings are drooping a little. He needs cheering.”

Dean looks over his shoulder and is indeed startled to see the wrought iron wings no longer look quite as impressively spread, and Castiel is drawing something onto the table with his fingers, his shoulders slumping as under the weight of holding those wings up.

“Whoa,” he remarks, and shakes his head. “I repeat. With that kind of magic, what the hell are they doing running a bar?”

“Well, I think they just like it better than making weapons. And not to alarm you, but this place really can get kind of expensive. No worries, this isn’t any of the heavy-duty stuff. But as a proud barkeep, let me tell you that it’s more than worth it.”

“Wait, are you making me something, too? I just wanted an IPA, actually.”

“No, what you want is something nourishing.”

“That’s what the ribs are for.”

“I promise, it’ll go wonderfully with the ribs.”

Dean did stock up on money before leaving, but by now, he’s getting seriously insecure about not having brought enough. Especially if this is a date. The kind where one offers to pay for the other. And Cas really shouldn’t be the one to pay if that is the case, since Dean is so deeply indebted to him already.

He smiles with a slightly desperate edge, and accepts the drinks. Cas’ is in a tulip shaped glass that even echoes the flower in the green tint slowly establishing itself down the lower part. There is a light fizz to it, and it smells fresh and a lot simpler than the many things that actually went into. He takes a cautious and very small sip, and his eyebrows hit the ceiling, because it somehow tastes exactly like spring.

“Not bad, barkeep. Even if you are bankrupting me.”

“Like I said, it’s not that expensive. Try yours.”

His own is in a simple round tumbler, still almost convex at the bottom, and a deep red color. It does look kind of great. There’s a surprising density to it, like it’s heavier than water, even if it doesn’t seem viscous in any way. He can almost feel it through the glass, or possibly through the air between his nose and the surface. It’s a gulp this time, because why not.

For a moment, absolutely nothing happens. It has the taste of a simple fruit concoction with a hint of vodka. Definitely not what he would have chosen for himself.

And then his hunger resurges. All of it. The need for food, for closeness, for physical reassurance and pleasure alike. The lust. He can almost feel his eyes go wide with it.

“What the-…” he pants, but then the effect changes. Warmth begins filling every part of him. His stomach settles into the kind of blissful state just after you’ve gorged yourself on a good meal, the lust becomes afterglow with a person you care about. It’s a different kind of peace than Cas’ honey and tea, but it’s powerful nonetheless. His body almost hums with it.

“Are you allowed to give these to the general public?”, he asks once the effects have settled enough, and it’s as much a compliment as it is genuine curiosity. Apparently, the people around him have a knack for providing illegal-seeming substances for him without even blinking an eye.

Eli shrugs with surprising non-chalance. “The effect doesn’t last long enough to do harm or cause any kind of addiction. And we limit our guests to one per evening.” It’s true; already the rush is less heady. He continues, “Come back later for your beer. We do have normal things as well, but Maria likes it when I show off a little for first-time customers.”

Dean gives him one last impressed nod.

“Showing off accomplished.”

“Please tell me what your partner thought of it as well.”

Dean halts for a split-second, eyes inevitably drawn to Castiel, who is not his partner, and whose wings look even droopier now. He seems to be staring at nothing. Eli goes on, and Dean never does end up having to decide whether or not to correct him. “Like I said, I can’t seem to read him very well from here. Maybe he can come over later and I can concoct something even better suited.”

“Yeah, sure.” But Dean is pretty sure Cas is going to be as happy with his drink as Dean is with his own. Even if it’s more evocative of a time of year rather than this strange post-orgasm experience Dean is having.

* * *

By the time Dean slips back into the booth, both drinks firmly placed on the table, Castiel’s wings have indeed gone droopy. In a weird way, it seems strange to see the wrought iron look that heavy. Like it’s having a hard time holding itself up. Cas looks tired, too, but it doesn’t mean the smile he gives Dean isn’t genuine.

“Okay, so I know I was gone for a while,” Dean says, and Castiel makes an effort to sit up straighter again, “but this bar is awesome. Creepy, and lousy with magic, but awesome. Here, drink this.”

He pushes the spring drink across the table, and watches as Castiel takes a cautious sip.

“I know you wanted cider, and this is probably costing more than restocking my crystal cabinet, but-…”

Castiel holds up a hand to make Dean stop talking, and takes a deeper gulp. His eyes have fallen closed, and for a moment, he just seems to savor the taste. Then he opens them again, and looks easily ten years younger. The shadows around his eyes are gone, in favor of a twinkle of mischief in there that makes Dean inappropriately think of what a wasted time it truly must have been, to have this Castiel in the academy, beautiful, and upright, and full of energy, and for him to forego a social life for the sake of studying.

“This was a very good choice, Dean,” he hums, and Dean’s mouth goes a little bit dry, so he takes a sip of his own drink. Which probably wasn’t a good idea, given the intensity of emotion rushing though him now. He shudders a little, unable to help it. He should have at least looked somewhere other than at Cas’ curious blue eyes.

“Would you like to try mine,” he suggests before he can realize what an incredibly foolish idea that is. But Cas has already reached across the table, and is putting the concoction to his lips.

Briefly, seeing it rumble through Castiel, he wonders if Dean himself looked anywhere near this erotic (probably), and also once more how this can possibly be legal, even short term. Mostly, he thinks ‘Guh’.

Cas made the same mistake Dean did – or was it deliberate? – which is to look at Dean while drinking. The effects of the other drink have already faded, his eyes returned to normal. That is, his eyes are their usual enigmatic sapphire storm, and Dean might possibly be drowning in them.

“Good, huh?”, he murmurs, almost too caught up in the moment to pay much attention to how husky his voice has become.

“It’s extraordinary.”

“I don’t know what else Eli can do, but he certainly outdid himself on that.”

“Eli?”

“The bartender. Alcohol mage, reads auras. Oh, he said you should come by the bar yourself, later, that he could tailor a better drink for you if he got a clear reading of you.”

“Oh. Yes. I might do that.”

“He might just be trying to ruin us.”

“Dean, I don’t know if you understand what being part of a very large family with different very successful businesses around the globe entails, but certainly, you must understand that money is not an issue. And that I invited you out.”

Dean is about to complain, but he barges on, undeterred. “And that I would very much appreciate it if you let me. You can get the next bill, if you like.”

It goes against a lot of what Dean has been taught, but a few tense seconds of looking into Cas’ eyes, and finding them almost pleading, ultimately makes him nod, clench his jaw, look into his drink for a moment, and then change the subject.

“I also met Maria’s brother. Joaquin, apparently. Who is arguably the scariest guy I’ve ever seen.”

“How so?”

But they’re interrupted by Maria setting down a huge platter of ribs in front of Dean. They are positively slathered in a marinade of honey and barbecue sauce, and any misgivings he might still have had about this place disappear right out the far-away window. He really hopes she hasn’t heard his comment about her brother, but the arch of her eyebrows tells a different story.

“What drink did you get?”, she asks, and her voice sounds easily as smoky as the ribs probably taste.

Dean thinks for a moment, and his eyes narrow. “He didn’t say, actually. Just that it was nourishing.”

“Interesting. Yes, they should go well together.”

She puts down an almost equally large bowl of soup in front of Castiel. Dean notices it’s steaming hot, and she’s not wearing any gloves, apart from the metal which probably runs hot, too. He wonders if Castiel could touch it just as easily, and then concludes the answer is probably yes, because he has a feeling he hasn’t seen the half of what Castiel is capable of in terms of fire magic. As a matter of fact, he’s seen very little.

“Soup for you.”

She isn’t leaving yet, though. Instead puts her hands on her waist, as if she’d asked a question. Luckily, Cas doesn’t take long to catch on.

“I believe my drink might be youth.”

“Something light, Eli called it,” Dean chimes in.

Maria’s mouth quirks. “Eli knows what he’s doing, you have to give him that.” Her eyes briefly fall to the wings, and Dean follows them. They have begun folding up.

“What is up with you, Cas?”

He almost misses that for a moment, Maria’s eyes turn laser sharp, because Cas’ turn apologetic. His shoulders take on the same slump as the wings, and Dean wonders how hard he’s had to work to keep that relaxed posture.

“I haven’t slept well.” He looks at the table, for a moment. Carefully aligns his spoon with the bowl. Then looks up, and actually looks guilty, like it’s something he’s been hiding. “Not for a while, actually.”

Dean thinks of that nightmare, but before he can interject, Cas turns his gaze on Maria. “I’m sorry I can’t seem more enthusiastic about this. I thought getting dinner would be a nice break from the usual, and your bar is certainly far more beautiful than anything I could have planned. This soup smells very good.”

Maria’s eyes are still narrowed, and Dean contemplates stepping in, because apparently, she’s caught up on the fact that this bar was not their original plan for the evening. But all she says is,

“Wait until you’ve tasted it, angel. No magic in it whatsoever, but I’m very good at keeping things at a low simmer for exactly as long as they need to.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“I’ll see if I can have Eli come up with something stronger to put you to sleep. Something to take home.”

“Oh, thank you, that’s very kind, but there’s no need. I’m a herbalist who’s more than adept at potion making.” He gets that terrible guilty look again. “I’m afraid some things just don’t work on me.”

And that explains a lot of things Dean never really thought to question.

“It’s why you’re always out of commission when you get sick. The rest of us mooks, we just take a potion to get better. Wow, that’s irony.”

“That it is.”

In the following lull, Cas finally dips a spoon into his dish, looking horribly down-trodden, and Dean notices that Maria has moved on.

“Well, I’m glad you’re here with me, man. Especially if you’re not feeling a hundred percent.”

“Thank you, Dean. Please, eat. Your ribs must be getting cold.”

Which gives Dean an idea of how to cheer him up a little, maybe. “I was kind of hoping you’d warm them up for me?” And then it occurs to him that might just make things worse, because if potions don’t work on Cas, who knows how his powers may be connected to his health. He quickly adds, “I mean, if that’s not costing you any energy.”

Castiel actually gives him a smile. It’s a little lopsided, but his eyes get that twinkle back, even without the drink. “You know it doesn’t.”

He lets his fingers hover over the candle between them, and puts his other hand over the ribs.

“Lock the moisture in, Dean.”

“Oh yeah.”

It’s fortunate, Dean thinks as he watches Cas work, that working with your true elements usually gives you an energy boost rather than take it out of you. And that that is what seems to be happening to Cas. He lets go of the moisture himself, and the ribs begin steaming again.

He allows his hand to brush up against Cas’, who still has his eyes closed in concentration. It’s burning hot.

“Yup, I think that’s hot enough. Thanks, Cas.”

Castiel opens his eyes again, but they focus on something behind Dean.

“For the record, Dean. You don’t seem to be doing particularly well, either.”

He looks over his shoulders, and then turns around fully. The pattern of wrought iron vines and flowers has changed as well, and Castiel is absolutely correct; it’s not for the better. What looked like delicate decoration before has now become a thicket almost suffocating to look at.

“Oh wow, that really is some strong magic at work here.”

Castiel looks like a storm when Dean turns back around.

“Don’t change the subject. It wasn’t this way a few minutes ago.”

Dean slumps down. He really would just rather eat his ribs, but Castiel is obviously not going to leave him alone about this.

“I guess-… I guess I just hate that I can’t help you sometimes. When you get sick, or with the nightmares. You just sort of-… disappear, and I can’t make it better.”

“It’s a trigger for you.” Because of what happened to your son, are the words he isn’t saying.

“Yeah. A little. Sometimes. I mean, it’s a different thing, obviously.” He nervously scratches the back of his neck, because this is not coming out right, and he isn’t sure how to make it sound better, at least not without lying. “Come on, let’s just eat, okay? You might have noticed earlier, but I’m a little on edge when I’m hungry.”

He can’t muster up more than a fake grin, but at least the ribs, when he does finally begin pulling the meat off with his teeth, are both good enough to hide that, and good enough to make it real.

“Oh man, these are awesome!”

Castiel doesn’t speak, and his eyes are still speculative, but he does finally start eating his soup, too.

His wings are completely furled up. They look like a burden.

* * *

It’s later, in the car, when Dean finally comes back to the subject. It’s not like the rest of dinner had been completely silent, but even with the help of their drinks, it had been hard to recapture the good mood of the beginning of the evening.

Maria had brought the check, and through gritted teeth, Dean allowed Cas to pay. Only for Cas to finally roll his eyes, and show him the price. Which was a bit steeper than your regular burger joint, but considering the quality of food, drink and ambience, definitely a steal.

“Come back, boys. I’d like to see both of you again,” Maria said, her tone making it sound more layered and cryptic than the simple niceties of a wise business-owner.

Dean had waved at Eli, but not looked at his bench again. He has a suspicion the wrought iron thicket might well strangle him if he’d stayed any longer.

It’s a relief, to be out in the cold air again, despite how awesome the bar truly was, and how much Dean actually was determined to return there, if only for the food. Cas, however, starts shivering almost immediately, and it puts an even greater damper on the mood. At least they find the car quickly.

Inside, the first thing Dean does is turn on the heater on full. The car is a comfortable rumble around them, but he doesn’t start driving yet. Instead, they both sit there in silence for a while, looking out the window while the air warms up a little.

Eventually, Dean begins, words coming out more clipped and tense than he’d like them to. At least the last bit sounds like the soft question it ought to be.

“You know you can talk to me, right?”

Castiel is still looking straight on, and his voice is even. Decided, but not cold. Just even. Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I don’t wish to cause you more grief.”

And damnit, this is exactly why Dean has always tried to ignore what was happening with Cas. All oaths of reciprocal friendship and taking care of each other aside, he knew the second they’d actually talk about it, Cas would catch on to the fact that it made Dean uncomfortable. As if that was important.

“You’re not,” he says, and it’s a little too loud, and a little too desperate, so he follows it with a much calmer, “You’re not, Cas. Ninety-nine percent of the time, you’re the guy who makes this whole mess bearable. Good, even.”

“You cannot build you entire life on me, Dean.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to have this conversation.”

“Where is this even coming from?”

“I told you, I’d rather not talk about it. Please. Just drive me home.”

Dean scoffs and hates himself a little for the next words to leave his mouth. “To the good rest and sweet dreams waiting for you?”

Cas grits his teeth and repeats, “Please.”

And because he clearly is perfectly serious about not talking, Dean complies. It’s a tense drive home, and it’s possible Dean is taking the corners too sharply, but Castiel never so much as makes a peep. Doesn’t look at Dean, either. Just straight ahead. Just like Dean.

When they pull up on the sidewalk in front of Cas’ house, Cas makes to get up immediately. Like he can’t wait to get away from Dean. So Dean stops him. A hand on his arm, nothing more, but he does sink back down into the seat. 

“You can’t avoid this forever, Cas. That’s like, the entire point of all you’ve told me.”

“I’m aware. Goodnight, Dean. We should do this again, some time.”

And that’s such a horrible, empty mockery of where this night could have gone, that Dean lets him get out of the car and disappear into his house. The tree looks menacing in the dark, a half-dead skeleton in front of the slowly crumbling facade.

 

_ The man the god has interwoven his essence with at the moment is sad. _

_ He was sad even before the god chose him. An isolated child, who could barely connect with the family that loved him. A strong young man, who could do great things and chooses to care for plants and bees instead. _

_ On the edge of life even before he started dying. _

_ Near invisible. _

_ The god knows he chose the right person. It felt right to choose him. He will die sooner than his ancestors, even, because the invisible god cannot hold on to life much longer, but he will not be missed much.  _

_ He is kind. He deserves to be missed.  _


	13. Chapter 13

Things are tense, the next day. Dean tries not to let it get to him that if he were the one obviously avoiding a subject, forcefully pretending everything is fine, and unwaveringly project an air of distance, Cas would not let him get away with it. Not for long, anyway. But he also remembers that whenever Dean was all of these things and worse, Cas had been patient. Unendingly patient and kind.

So instead of confronting Cas about how he obviously didn’t sleep much again last night – it’s hard to miss, now that Dean forces himself to notice – he grits his teeth, and talks about the work that needs doing. Of which there is, thankfully, a lot. They’ve gotten quite used to working in tandem for the more obviously magical aspects of their jobs, but there are a great deal of simply physical things that need doing, which allows them both to not have to spend too much time together.

Dean buys them both lunch as usual, and they do eat it together, but it’s in an unusually terse silence only occasionally interrupted by stilted conversation, and they both seem to agree to spend dinner apart. Neither Pala nor Sage are particularly happy about this.

Unsurprisingly, after two days of this, Cas falls sick for good. In the morning, Dean finds a short note and list of instructions, including probably genuine sentiments such as ‘I don’t wish to inconvenience you’. He knows how to get into the shop without a key, so he lets himself in. Takes a look at the greenhouse, then at the bees. Which he still can’t handle well, but apparently they don’t seem to need much at the moment. He takes care of the plants, and it feels beyond strange to be in this old-fashioned greenhouse without Cas.

* * *

The apartment is empty, but the bedroom door is ajar, so Dean takes a big breath, grabs two glasses in addition to the water carafe, and walks in there.

It says a lot about the shape Cas is in that he barely lifts his torso from the mattress.

“Dean?”

Dean places the items he’s brought onto the bedside table next to the little hyacinth. Where, at least, half a piece of bread and an empty cup of tea are already laid out. The tea is sage. Cat Sage is also there, curled up on the foot of the bed. She looks at Dean when he comes closer, but doesn’t object when he pushes the covers aside, toes off his shoes, and climbs in next to Cas.

“Shut up,” he says preemptively, and there’s still a hint of the bite he’s trying to keep back. He isn’t touching Castiel, not yet. Just lying next to him. More softly, he says, “You don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to. But you clearly need someone there with you, if only to make sure you keep breathing, yeah?”

He doesn’t nod, or acquiesce in any way, but he also doesn’t tell Dean to leave. So Dean lies back. Not touching, until Castiel ever so slowly inches over towards him, and lays his head on Dean’s chest. His eyes are wet, and his breaths are accented by small hiccoughing sobs. Dean doesn’t touch his tears, but he does curl his arms around him. He does kiss the top of his head and tries not to think.

When they sleep, Dean dreams in images, ochre and with vivid contrasts, as if taken by an old camera. They’re memories, probably, but at the time he’s seeing them, he admires them for their aesthetic value.

They are simple things, captured to perfection. That day at the lake, when he went camping with Lisa and Ben, only Cas is there, too, standing in the distance, his wings broad and strong. The box he still needs to finish looking through, but it’s full of hyacinths. Ben in the hospital bed, Dean himself looking out the window instead, which is Cas’ window, at the garden market. Cas in Dean’s bed, half-naked and beautiful.

Someone sets fire to the photographs, and even as he’s trying to stop it from spreading, he knows it was him. They consume everything.

He wakes up gasping, but thankfully, he doesn’t disturb Cas.

Castiel, at least, appears to sleep dreamlessly. 

* * *

Little cats are worth a lot, even if they’re not familiars. Dean doesn’t think he would have been able to get back to sleep without her walking around his chest, kneading his t-shirt, and then settling down purring right over his agitated heartbeat.

Even so, he only allows himself to nod off, and when he wakes from this shallow, dreamless sleep, Castiel is awake and looking at him.

He looks bad. Disheveled, face swollen with sleep, hair a little greasy. And very tired. Bone-deep tired.

“Hey,” he mutters, but Castiel takes his sweet time answering. Sage has migrated to the warm space between them, a slowly breathing heap of black fur on which Cas’ hand is resting. Dean and he aren’t touching now, but they are close. It’s intimate, and a little strange, and Dean suddenly remembers they are sort of fighting.

“Have you had any water? Brought you some.”

“Yes, thank you. I feel much better for it.”

“You still look-…”

Not great. 

“I’ll be good to get up in a day or so.”

“Do you usually do this alone?” He hands Cas more water, and with weak hands, Castiel accepts it. 

“Gabriel comes here, sometimes. Only when it’s bad, though.”

“This isn’t bad?”

He doesn’t take more than two sips, but it’s better than nothing.

“I had you to take care of my plants. My bees.”

“Yeah, they’re all fine, but Cas,” he takes the glass back, “you can barely move. You don’t just need someone for your business, you need someone to take care of you, too.”

“I can move it I have to. And I didn’t ask you to come here.”

“Well, here I am anyway. You complaining?”

“No. It was nice. Waking up to you.”

“Well, it comes with breakfast. What are you in the mood for?”

“There is some tea. In the cabinet two doors down from the sink. I think we could both use a cup.”

And Dean almost says ‘I love you’, not even because of anything in particular, and certainly not because of the proposed tea. It just almost slips out.

Instead, he nods and gets up.

“Could you see if you could reignite the fire? There may be some embers left.”

“You cold?”

“I’m almost always cold.”

His eyes fall closed again, as if exhausted, suddenly.

“Any pain?”

“Some. Not too much. Just heavy.”

And Dean is on the verge of something. Something that makes him shiver, even though it’s objectively speaking still far too warm in Cas’ bedroom. A full-blown flashback, most likely.

“I’ll make you some eggs, too,” he gasps out and flees the room.

Stands in the kitchen panting. Remembers the cabinet Cas spoke off. Finds the tea with shaking fingers. Finds a pitcher of crystal water, the same stones that Dean left here last time. One of them has the rune for health on it.

He breaths in. Breathes out. Blocks out the thoughts he almost has. Blinks back the tears, burns them out of his eyes with the heat of the fire. He puts the water onto it, in a simple black kettle. Then sinks down with his back against a cabinet.

“I triggered you again,” he hears from the doorway, and sees Cas weakly leaning against it. He has wrapped his sheets around himself, but it’s clear he’s shivering.

Dean doesn’t stand up, but he’s trying his best to sound normal, at least. “You got any eggs in your fridge?” A stupid question, because he could just look. If he could get up. It feels brittle, and fake, and Cas deserves better.

“No. I’m sorry, Dean.”

“Oh.” He tries to get up again, but not a single limb is working. “I guess I should go get some, then.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Cas walks over to him, the small stretch of space obviously costing him a lot of energy, and Dean can’t even bring himself to tell him to stop. He sinks down next to Dean, until they’re both leaning against some kitchen cabinet and pulls the blanket over them both. And Dean wasn’t cold, and it’s a bit oppressive, but the gesture is worth a lot.

“I ever tell you how my son died?”

“No.”

“He literally turned to stone. His bones began calcifying when he was just a kid, and then it just… spread. Bit by bit, he stopped functioning. His nervous system stayed intact, but the muscles got eaten up by it, too. The inner organs, later. His eyes.”

He takes a moment to collect himself, and Castiel takes his hand under the blanket.

“He was a mineral mage, too. It’s why it took so long for it to defeat him. He fought like crazy. And so did I. But we both felt it. Felt his body stop being organic. Stop being a body at all.”

He takes in a shuddering breath, and the flames just aren’t hot enough to evaporate the helpless tears that are rolling down his cheeks.

“I yelled at Lisa, at some point. Told her it was her fault. There was a distant great-uncle or something who died of the same thing. A lot later in life, obviously. He didn’t get sick as a kid. We did a lot of research, and it’s really not typical for this kind of sickness to manifest this early. It usually waits until puberty, when everything is already so out of control you miss out on something feeling wrong about your body. He should have had longer. I still can’t believe Lisa let me yell at her, but she never yelled at me for bringing mineral magic into it. Genes with an affinity for mineralization met with an enhanced understanding of it. I might even have triggered it. His magic turning against him. But she never yelled back. Just forgave me.”

Cas lays his head on Dean’s shoulder.

“And I never stopped loving my magic. Feeling my boy turn to stone should have done that. Screw everything else, minerals should be the largest triggers for me out there. But they still feel good. Still feel right. And they’re different within a human body. So I still work with them, and sometimes, I even forget what happened to Ben. Even when I’m touching the exact same structure that ate him up.”

The water is boiling now, and Dean knows he should stop talking, but he can’t. 

“The last time he could see, I turned away from him. I couldn’t look, and the last thing he saw was his dad looking out the window instead. He didn’t last long after that. Too near his brain. He probably couldn’t even feel Lisa holding his hand when his lungs gave out.”

He closes his eyes. His tears leave tingly, irritating tracks on his cheeks, and evaporate before they hit his chin. He sees it now, again. Those last few days. The horror of it all. The relief when it was over. The guilt for feeling relief. Playing with that droopy plant on the windowsill when he should have been taking care of his son.

Beneath the stifling blankets, Cas wraps his arms around him, and if Dean could move, he’d hold on to him like a lifeline.

* * *

They sit like this for a long time, probably. He’s lost the feeling off it. But when Castiel extracts himself and mutters, “I’ll put on a new kettle”, he does remember Cas isn’t well. That Dean was supposed to take care of him, not make him sit on a kitchen floor, without breakfast, without tea, without even any crystal water left, because he was such a mess.

He presses his eyes shut to keep the new wave of tears at bay. Castiel is moving slowly, he can tell, and the old pipes gurgle up some of that unhealthy water.

“Would you purify it for me?”

Castiel is suddenly in front of him, holding the filled kettle out for Dean.

“Careful, the kettle is still warm.”

Dean takes in a shuddering breath, but opens his eyes. Much like the first time they met, sunlight is filtering through the tips of Cas’ hair. Blurry as he is, it makes him look so far removed from Dean, so very beyond him, they might as well live on different planets. Or different times.

Then Castiel’s hand lands on his shoulder, and it’s heavy, like he needs something to hold him up, and Dean wipes away his tears and lays his other hand over the water.

“You really shouldn’t drink this,” he says, and lets his magic run through him, then the water. Filters it, draws the harmful particles to the surface rather than the bottom of the kettle. The water is warm, probably left-over heat from its container, which spent too much time on the fire. He stops when he holds a fine powder in his palm.

“I usually get my drinking water from the greenhouse. And your crystals are quite strong as well.”

“Yeah, this is what I’m good for. Minerals and water.”

“It’s what you’re good at, Dean. Not what you’re good for.”

Dean lets the kind correction fly over his head. He’s watching a man weak with sickness heave around a heavy iron kettle to make tea for them both. He’s not good for much of anything at this point.

When the water is safely on its way to boiling again, Cas gets out two cups and a tea can. Fills the loose leaves and flowers into a large teabag and puts that into the tea can.

Dean heaves himself up, taking the blanket with him. 

“You’re shaking,” he points out tonelessly. “Go lie down again, I’ll take care of the rest.”

Castiel hesitates, but he really is anything but steady, and finally nods. Dean gives him the blanket, and he walks out of the kitchen. For a few seconds, his hand lingers on Dean’s upper arm in passing.

Dean stands there breathing for a while, the sunlight a bit of a nuisance against his aggravated eyes. Then he opens the fridge and finds some home-made-looking cream cheese with an assortment of herbs. Another quick search yields bread, older and chewy, but the slices are easily toasted over the roaring fire. Dean is still too hot, but he puts another log on it after taking the boiling water off it and pouring it into the can.

Finally, he opens up a jar of honey, puts a spoonful of it in both cups, and spreads a little over the toasted bread, butter underneath running with the heat. He even finds a wooden tray to arrange it all on. The scent of the tea is almost enough to make him feel a little better, but he wonders if it truly will do anything for him today, if it can coax feelings of acceptance and peace out of him when at the moment, he is so caught in that slumping numbness after a long-overdue cry.

Dean is planning on taking breakfast to Cas’ bedroom, but he’s on the couch instead, sitting curled up in his blanket. He looks very tired, even when he opens his eyes and smiles at Dean.

“We can eat at the table.”

Dean heaves in a shuddering breath, and nods. The hyacinth is in the way when Dean sets the table, but he just arranges everything around it. Cas must have carried it outside while Dean was making breakfast, or maybe while he was freaking out on the kitchen floor.

Castiel shuffles over, the blanket still draped around him like a toga. A beam of sunlight hits him when he sits down, and Dean briefly can’t comprehend how someone so weak and so tired can look so beautiful. He sits down opposite. It doesn’t escape his notice that Cas probably deliberately chose the chair Dean sat in the last time he was up here.

They both eat with appetite, at least, though slowly, and the slices with cream cheese are as delicious as the ones with honey. When the tea is ready, poured and stirred into the honey in their cups, Dean takes a sip, and finds it does work.

It’s peaceful, immeasurably so. Just the two of them, in the warm morning sun, with a view of Dean’s greenhouses. They don’t speak, but at last, it’s a comfortable silence again, and after a while Dean clears the table. Cas migrates back onto the couch and closes his eyes. Eventually, Dean joins him there.

They wake up when it’s much later, Dean blinking against the blanket where he’s buried his face, before extracting himself. They’re both still sitting, though Dean apparently fell asleep with his cheek to Cas’ shoulder, and then turned away from the sun.

Cas is awake, and looking at him with inscrutable blue eyes. He’s holding Dean’s hand again, and Dean vaguely remembers laying his hand over Cas’ before falling into soft, undisturbed slumber.

“I need to leave for a couple of weeks.”

Dean presses his hand over his eyes for a few moments. 

“Now?” he eventually asks, then looks again. He doesn’t like the look of determination Cas is wearing. 

“Soon. When I’m better. There are a few things I need to take care of.”

“Oh.”

Cas gently squeezes his hand and lowers his gaze. 

“I hope it won’t inconvenience you too much to occasionally look after my plants and bees? The bees should be mostly self-sufficient, of course, and I’ll keep the automatic watering system running.”

“It won’t be a problem.”

“And can-… can Sage stay here? Run in your greenhouses and gardens? She doesn’t require much nutrition, I’ve found, and I still have plenty of cat food.”

“Why is that even a question? I love that little cat, Cas.” He finally manages to catch Cas’ eyes. “Seriously,” he insists, making sure Cas understands him. “we’re good.”

“Are we?”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.” It’s Dean who isn’t good. But he needs to learn to be. “Just take care of yourself while you’re gone, yeah?”

Castiel smiles. Simply, devastatingly. 

“I will do my best.” 

 

_ And yet, the god finds it more difficult to witness this man’s decline than before. _

_ Perhaps it is because the god himself is running out of time, even with a human’s magic bound to his. _

_ Perhaps it is the utter acceptance with which the man meets his fate. _

_ Once a bond is forged in magic, even the god himself can no longer separate it. _

_ If he could, he would almost consider it when the man falls in love. _


	14. Chapter 14

True to his word, Castiel does leave. Not until after Dean has done his utmost to nurse him back to health over the course of five more days, and not until after he has explained absolutely everything that needs doing – and Dean notices he really has set up a good system that means there isn’t much extra work for Dean at all.

He spends a good half hour just saying goodbye to Sage, who keeps rolling around the floor, presenting her belly and purring up a storm, as if to keep Cas home for the sheer cuteness of it all. Dean actually has to look away a few times, because the cuddly tiny cat combined with the sheer love radiating off Cas is a bit too much. “You’re such a wonderful little cat,” Cas keeps saying, and “You have the softest, shiniest fur,” and “Will you take care of Dean while I’m gone?”

“We’ll be fine,” Dean says eventually, softly coaxing Cas away from crouching over Sage. Definitely not because he’s especially keen to get Cas to leave, but because they have a plane to catch.

Cas told him he needed to visit his parents, and a few other relatives, and while Dean has a feeling it’s probably not the entire truth, it definitely is the first step of Castiel’s journey, and the flight across the country will take him a while.

Actually, Dean is nervous. So nervous his stomach is in knots.

“We’ll take care of each other. You just make sure that plane doesn’t fall out of the sky.”

“I have absolutely zero way of making sure of that, Dean.” Deliciously deadpan, but doing absolutely nothing to assuage Dean’s nerves.

“Which is why people shouldn’t fly,” he insists with a huff, even though, obviously, it’s a lost cause.

“You drive a very fast car, Dean. It’s not like I don’t worry for you, either.”

Dean huffs, and walks out of the door. “At least I steer it myself,” he mumbles, but Cas apparently hears him.

“Yes. But no skill or magic in the world can account for human error. Yours or others’.”

He turns back around, and they stand in the doorway for a moment, watching as Cas locks up the store.

“I’m very good at driving my car, Cas.” Castiel hands him the keys, and Dean lets them drop into the pocket of his jeans. “Where is this even coming from?”

“I suppose I’m not dealing very well with not being able to see you for a while.”

“I told you, I can figure out video chat or whatever that’s called.”

“Dean,” he looks and sounds both amused and exasperated now, “the last three times I have attempted to explain this very easy application to you, you gave up before you even understood the concept of a double click.”

Dean sulks all the way back to the car. Cas’ luggage, which he’s insisted on carrying himself, looks to be heavy, but Cas is back at full strength, so all Dean has in his hand is a cheesy looking rucksack and a small bag Cas gave him. When he has popped the trunk and Cas has heaved his luggage in there, he’s stopped from putting the bag in there next to the rucksack, though, with a hand on his arm.

“This is for you, Dean. A thank you, for taking care of my plants.”

“What is it?”

Dean peers into the bag before Cas can stop him, and sees an assortment of teas, and small vials.

“More of your tea, as well as five vials of dreamless sleep. Use them sparsely, and only if necessary. The tea we’ve had a few times, too, which makes it easier to focus. A powder to make a solution with. It enhances physical performance for a while, so that it’s easier to heave things of greater mass and weight around. It does leave you with the same kind of exhaustion you would have gotten otherwise as well, though, so be careful with using it.”

“That’s-… a lot.”

Cas takes a deep breath, glances behind Dean for a moment, then looks back at him. His forehead is creased, and he sounds unsure, when he finally says,

“The truth is, I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. I know I said two weeks, but it might be longer. And obviously, you have the keys to my shop, and I can explain to you where to find potions or powders for specific ills, but this should be a good starter pack.”

As if that is important. That Dean has a steady supply of Cas’ not plant-oriented magic to help him get through his days.

“More than two weeks, huh?”, he asks tonelessly. It’s selfish, how downtrodden he sounds. It’ll make Cas feel worse about leaving. But he can’t seem to stop the foggy thoughts from leaking out.

Indeed, Cas’ frown deepens, and he tilts his head slightly, in that horribly sympathetic way he has. “Sage will take care of you.”

Dean shakes his head.

“I don’t need taking care of. I just-… I’ll miss you.”

It says a lot, he thinks, a little blithely and unsure what it even says, that Cas is the one to look away now. For a while, they just stand facing each other, without eye contact, while Dean drinks in every last detail of his friend.

“I will call you, Dean.”

“Not the same thing, though.”

“I know. But I need to do this.”

It’s an entire ride to the airport later, after Castiel has exited and gotten his luggage and checked in, that they realize for now, there is nothing more of substance to say, but Dean can sense how reluctant Cas is to leave, and invites him to a last slice of bad pizza in an entirely unremarkable chain restaurant.

They chat about the predicted weather patterns, both where Cas is going and where Dean is staying. Dean asks if his parents at least have a garden, and is given a ten-minute walkthrough though what is apparently an entire park. Cas tells him Anna is scheduled to come for a visit as well, and Dean is glad to see him look a little less wistful and more like he’s looking forward to this trip, if only for a few minutes.

The mood drops again when Dean pays and gets even cloudier when they walk to the gate. A few people – most likely people with the ability to read auras – even glance at Castiel for a few moments too long, and Dean wishes they didn’t, because he clearly doesn’t enjoy the attention.

And then they’re at the gate and it’s time to say goodbye, and Dean is not ready.

“You warm enough?”, he asks, and they both pretend his voice isn’t as gruffy as it is. Cas isn’t wearing his warmest robes, but he does have an additional cloak draped over his arm.

Instead of answering, Cas say, “I left my hyacinth in your greenhouse, right next to the reception. I wanted to take it with me, but I fear the stress of moving around so much would put too large a strain on it.”

“I’ll make sure it’ll look better than ever by the time you get back.”

“It’s probably delighted about the change of scenery.”

“To be fair, you did sort of drag it around with you, so it’s not the most one-sided of plants.”

“I liked having it with me.”

“You will again, though, right?”

“Yes, Dean. Of course, I will. I might be gone a while, but I am coming back.”

Dean kind of wants to kiss him. A lot. But seconds before a flight across the country, and a trip that might keep Cas away for  _ longer than two weeks _ , probably isn’t the time to make that particular decision about their relationship.

So instead, it’s a lingering hug. Burying his face in Cas’ hair and taking a deep breath of that scent of wood smoke. Bodies pressed close, and two sets of arms holding each other tight.

Finally breaking apart, clearing throats and looking somewhere else.

“Goodbye, Dean.”

“Call as soon as you’ve landed, okay?”

Castiel nods, his eyes glistening a bit suspiciously, and abruptly turns away.

Dean watches him walk through the gate, and then he sits down right in the waiting area and stares at the floor for two hours.

* * *

To his great surprise and relief, Castiel does call. And not just after the plane touched down in California, but afterwards as well. Their conversations aren’t frequent, but they are regular, and more often than not, there is a text on its way through the air to the other. Or however texting works.

Dean actually enlists his employee Charlie to explain to him how to take pictures with his phone and then send them, but for some reason, he is so technically inept all he ends up responding to Cas’ own photos with are words.

Because Castiel, it turns out, loves sending Dean pictures, and it’s a greater comfort than even hearing his voice. To know that Cas is out there, somewhere in California, and spotted a rare breed of Catalonian Lily, and decided Dean needed to see it. Or a nicely shaped rock that Dean can’t identify from a picture alone. Or – and Dean cherishes those in particular – selfies.

And it’s a far cry from having Cas there, but it helps.

It helps, when in the mornings, he opens up his garden market alone. The sun is rising earlier now, and Dean begins to chase it rather than charge ahead of it. Especially because mornings are still difficult, and nights still get hard, and there is so much less to look forward to now.

It helps when he looks at the little hyacinth, which he’s taken home with him, and imagines Cas tending to it with those gentle hands and a dopey soft smile.

It helps when he buys lunch for one, and eats it in the sun-streamed plentitude of Cas’ garden, surrounded by the buzz of bees that probably sort of miss him, too.

It helps when he works the afternoons in silence, and makes some off-hand remark into thin air, only to realize there is no one but his plants to hear it.

He works longer now, again. With all the most important things taken care of during his work hours, and no one waiting to eat dinner with him, he finally has the time to take care of all the left-over things he never gets around to. It’s good, because his garden market has never looked better. Even the books are completely up to date without last-minute late-night sessions cramped in.

And it makes him tired enough to get through the long evenings, the dread before sleeping. True to what Cas said, he hasn’t taken any of the no-dreams potions yet, though mostly because he thinks he needs to save them for an even rainier day. Or night, as it were.

He does notice that Cas texts him more frequently in the hours before he usually goes to bed, like he understands this is when Dean needs distraction and reassurance most.

So yeah, it helps to stay in contact. At least until the two weeks mark has passed and all Castiel answers to his inquiring text is, “I can’t come home yet, Dean. I will tell you when I know more.” 

It’s the first night he does take the sleeping potion, and it’s such gloriously restful sleep he almost forgets to feel bad again when he wakes up, and it becomes very obvious why Cas told him to be careful with it.

He texts Cas more, during the first three days of the knowledge that it really will be a long time until they can see each other again. Castiel seems to be glued to his phone as well. But when they call, they talk about inconsequential things instead.

* * *

And he keeps up the pretense, but the truth is, his days are steadily getting worse. And worse. One day, three and a half weeks in, he calls Cas in tears, because he lost a batch of Parsley to lice. And Cas doesn’t pick up. Busy, probably, with good reason, but it sends Dean spiraling into a full-blown panic attack, the kind of which he hasn’t had in months.

Kevin is already gone for the day. Dean regrets locking Pala and Sage outside today, but Pala usually flies vaster circles during his work hours, and it had been too dangerous for a cat to come in extended contact with the pollen he had just begun working with before he discovered the lice.

No one is there to find him and help him and bring him tea as he’s lying on his side in front of the ruined parsley unable to breathe right. No one is there to pick him up again, when the shaking has subsided, and all that’s left is not being able to move.

He does it himself, obviously, after some time has passed. After screaming at himself in his head for hours, until the voice was hoarse and tired and just wanted to go to bed. “Get up! Get up, you worthless fuck!” turns into “Okay, I know you are hurting, but you need to get up. You can start small, Dean. Just move your hand. A finger. You can do it,” and it no longer sounds like Dean, it sounds like Cas.

He manages to move a finger, and after that, sitting up is possible. Keeping the momentum going to get up fully is possible, and then to walk out, lock the doors and go to his car. He doesn’t question it when Pala flutters into the car for once, and keeps cooing into his ear from where she’s perched on the back of his seat. Sage also jumps into the car before he can close the door. She’s neither purring nor rubbing herself against him, but she does seem to keep watch.

He drives them home. Lets them into the apartment, and puts out some food and water for both. For himself, he puts on some water for the tea, but has passed out on the couch before it even boils.

* * *

There is a certain numbness after an episode like this. Something like peace, maybe, even. When your eyes still itch with the tears that left salty tracks across your nose before running dry in your hair, but you can open them, and see that you’re still there. When your limbs feel heavy, but the sunset is spectacular, and looking at it doesn’t bring you joy, but it doesn’t bring you pain, either. When feeling a small cat purring into your back doesn’t quite make you feel better, but you understand the sentiment and appreciate it. When noticing the black crow sitting on the back of the couch, watching over you both reminds you that there is someone who cares.

When seeing that little hyacinth alive and well and definitely without any lice makes you smile a little, and it may not be a real smile, but it’s the closest approximation you are capable of, and that’s enough.

A look at his watch tells him he truly hasn’t slept that long, and while he should probably return to his garden market to finish the work for today, he simply can’t muster up the strength.

What he does begin to understand, though, is that Cas may come back, but in the meantime, Dean has to learn to pick himself up quicker. He’s gotten so used to having someone there for him whenever he needed him, that he’s begun to rely on it far too heavily. It’s a burden Castiel has gladly born, for whatever reason, but it’s not a fair one, and he certainly shouldn’t shoulder more of it than Dean himself.

Dean is shit at self-reliance. He is pretty damn bad at taking care of himself in a way that is anything but pushing the pain ahead of him until he can no longer walk, not even when stemming his entire weight against it. And then walking off in a different direction, maybe. Only to realize after a while the weight is tied to him.

He splashes some water onto his face, enjoying the soft, comforting buzz of magic, and gets rid of the tear tracks while he’s at it. Next, he boils some more water, makes himself a sandwich, and puts on some tea. Not the grief tea, but simple refreshing peppermint. 

“Step by step,” he tells himself, and the voice is still Cas’, but it’s also his own, and he bites into the sandwich. It tastes good enough, distantly, and he finishes it.

He waters the hyacinth, and adds a very small portion of the mineral mixture he has with him. “You’re doing good, little plant,” he tells it, and softly strokes its blossoms. “I hurt you, but you’re hanging in there like a champ.”

Sage has apparently fallen asleep for good, a small black bundle in the middle of the couch, but Pala is still watching him with her head cocked. He gives her a moment to shy away from the touch, but she lets him stroke the top of her head, too. “Yeah, I’m a mess, aren’t I? Probably don’t deserve a good bird like you taking care of me.”

Pala caws disapprovingly.

“You know what I need? I need a night out.” He’s said it before he’s even realized it, but it’s definitely the truth. More importantly, it’s a plan.

* * *

Unoriginal and a little intimidated by the prospect of going out alone, he’s walking around trying to find a dive bar, and instead, once more comes to stand in front of the ‘Iron Will’. It’s probably too expensive – even though the check last time really had been affordable, even for someone who hasn’t inherited a family fortune – and it’s probably too scary – Maria is way too perceptive and he’d rather not run into Joaquin tonight, but it is familiar territory, and it reminds him of having Cas there.

The heat inside is overwhelming, and Dean finds he’s sort of missed it. Since Castiel left, his shop never does get heated at full steam. He deliberately chooses a different booth this time, a little smaller, and with a sun behind him – a mirror perfectly reflecting a cleverly placed light and embellished by wrought iron rays. It will probably be an eclipse by the time he leaves, but at least he’s probably less likely to intense bouts of longing for someone who isn’t here.

Who is here is Maria. Spectacular as usual, a cream-white gown underneath the armor this time. And she seems to remember him, because she deliberately walks over to him and with her smoky voice says, “Without the angel today, Dean?”

In a weird way, it actually kind of relaxes Dean.

“He’s visiting family.”

Maria looks at him calculatingly for a long time, but he keeps his eyes open and fixed on her as well. She lets a slow smile curl one corner of her mouth.

“Hm, shame. Joaquin wanted to talk to him.”

“Yeah, uhm. Shame,” Dean deadpans. The curl grows more pronounced, and a little bit more dangerous.

Nevertheless, she changes the subject. “Do you want to eat anything today?”

And to his surprise now that he’s here, he does feel like it. One sandwich is better than nothing, but he did skip lunch during his freak-out, and it smells phenomenal in here. She’s barely put the plates onto the table, before Dean has pressed the one advertising ribs onto the metal.

“Not up for any new experiences today, Dean?”

“I figure, why mess with a good thing. Besides, I’m saving my adventurousness for the bar.”

Her eyebrows arch, but she doesn’t look surprised. “I see. Well, enjoy your dinner, Dean.”

And with that, she saunters off, the plates for ordering already having disappeared inside a metal sleeve.

The bar isn’t overly crowded, as can be expected for a Wednesday evening, but Dean is pleased to see Eli is working again. He’s just about to go over there, when his phone rings.

“Hello?”

“Dean, you called me.” Castiel sounds worried, and it makes Dean feel bad.

“Oh yeah. Wasn’t important. Just wanted some advice on how to handle lice on parsley.”

“You have lice on your parsley?”

“Not all of it, but some. You’re the non-violent type. Any idea how I can get rid of them and keep the plants viable for herbal magic?”

Dean settles back in the booth and closes his eyes as Castiel begins to relay different methods. He isn’t even really listening. As a gardener, he knows most tricks of plant-care and dealing with insect infestations. But Castiel’s voice is soothing, and for a while, Dean can imagine he is sitting opposite of him.

A rambunctiously loud group of people enters and draws him out of the lull. Castiel stops, too.

“Where are you?”

“In that bar we went to. The one with the wrought iron everything. Maria says creepy Joaquin wants to talk to you, so you blocked a hex there.”

“Are you there with anyone?”

Dean closes his eyes for a moment. 

“Nope, went all on my lonesome. I mean, I guess I’ll hang out with Eli when I’m done eating. The bartender.”

“Well, I hope you’ll have an enjoyable evening.”

“I think I will. I mean, I’d rather have you here, but-… well, you know.”

“I’d rather be here, too.”

Dean leans forward onto the table and covers his eyes with one hand for a moment. Tries to stop himself from saying,  _ “So come back. I don’t care what you’re doing right now, but whatever your family needs you for at the moment, it can’t be anywhere near as much as I need you.” _

“Ugh, I know I said you missed out during your college years, but at least you never had to deal with jackasses like this. Hasn’t anyone ever told these guys it’s rude to play with someone else’s magic?”

“What are they doing?”

“Showing off for their girlfriends. Or trying to anyway. At least one of them does not look amused, and another one is actually embarrassed on their behalf. Fucking idiots, playing with fire in a bar owned by fire mages.”

“Hm, yes, I do dislike people who live up to harmful stereotypes.”

“All fire mages are volatile and prone to arrogantly overestimating themselves?”

“I suppose there is some truth to it. Most fire mages I’ve met have been quite fond of embracing societal expectation. One of them blew his own arm off before he even got to take his end exam.”

It’s the first real grin in ages. 

“You’ve seen a guy blow his own arm off?”

“I wasn’t there for it, but even a recluse like me could not escape the rumor mill entirely.”

“To be fair, if I could work with fire, I’d probably have done something stupidly dangerous, too.”

“It’s probably quite good you mostly work with more stable elements, then.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I should let you get back to your food.”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s not here yet, but-… okay, spoke too soon. Thank you, Maria.”

She raises an impressive eyebrow at him. 

“Is that Castiel?”

Dean brings the phone to his chest. “Yeah.”

“Tell him Joaquin wants to talk to him.”

“Already have.”

“Good. Tell it to him again without calling my brother creepy. Enjoy.”

She walks away again, in that strange gait of hers that turns heavy steps into gliding. Dean holds the phone to his ears again. 

“Uhm. Cas, Joaquin wants to talk to you when you get back. Who is not creepy in any way.” 

Maria, meanwhile, is moving on to the some other customers and Dean barks a laugh. “Holy crap, I think she just scared that guy’s pants off.”

“The show-off?”

“Yeah. Serves him right.”

For a little while, they stay like that, in comfortable silence on the phone. Just as Dean thinks he should probably start eating, Cas says,

“Have a wonderful meal, Dean.”

And Dean misses him so much he can’t do anything except say, “Thanks, Cas,” and wish, wish,  _ wish _ he was here. 

* * *

The kid shows up on a Sunday, so by all rights, Dean should have missed him moving in. He has infinitely more things to do at his garden market than at his empty flat, though, so of course, he’s at work when Cas’ cousin slouches out of a cab and through the door. With a key. He locks behind him, which wouldn’t be a problem, since Dean has one as well, but he figures it best not give the guy a scare and let him settle for a bit before introducing himself.

Also, it is very possible Dean himself needs a moment to get over the fact that Cas is actually going to be gone long enough that someone else is stepping in for him.

It’s not like he didn’t have warning. Cas told him about half a week ago Inias would come up during spring break and manage the shop as best as he could, with phoned-in cues from Cas, of course. He even asked him to keep an eye on the kid, to help him out with the plants and the bees, if that wasn’t too much work for Dean. So yeah, he knew.

It still fucking hurts.

It also hurts the next day, when he does go over to say hi, and Inias is nothing like Cas. At first glance, absolutely your typical sullen teenager who’d rather do anything but this boring spring break job. Wavy blond hair, a bit too long to look groomed, but with plenty of product in it. Actual freckles around his slightly turned-up nose. Despite his skin tone much tanner than Cas – obviously a California resident. His light blue eyes are always narrowed, and the slouch is obviously affected, but seems to have become a habit that is threatening to actively harm the guy’s posture permanently.

The only thing even remotely like Cas – and he’s a little ashamed to notice – are his lips. A bit pinker, maybe, and a little narrower, but the same shape, especially similar when he talks.  

He does shake Dean’s hand, though, and not only seems to know who he is, but not be entirely averse to getting some help.

“I’ve only helped Castiel out a couple of summers. I know the basics, but there’s still a long way to go until I can actually take over, you know?”

Dean is not complaining. He knows even less than Inias about how to run Cas’ business, but he does spend a rather enjoyable afternoon showing the kid what he’s been doing in the garden and greenhouse, and enjoys it even more when Inias rubs the back of his neck a bit awkwardly at the end of it – a gesture more like Dean’s than Cas’ – and says, “Yeah, don’t really know that much about plant care. More of a potions only guy, really. So if you don’t mind, maybe you could keep doing most of this? I can water the plants, obviously. But they’re probably better off with you.”

It seems a bit like a cop-out, but Dean is feeling generous – and he’s spent his first day in ages continuously talking to someone, even if it had been kind of stilted at times – so he waves it away with a, “Dude, don’t sweat it. I’m a water mage, I can water the plants myself. And I like working with them. And Cas told me to take good care of them, so…”

“Oh, yeah. Awesome.” The kid actually gives him a smile, and it does something funny to his eyes that also looks much more like Cas, even though the kid is barely twenty and doesn’t have any of the charming lines around them, and they’re the wrong color entirely. Still, it makes Dean clench his teeth and look away, because there are some things that are just too painful. 

* * *

In a way, it feels better now, going over to Cas’ shop. It’s no longer empty, after all, and the kid is nice enough, despite the natural pretentiousness of being an academia kid who could be hanging out with friends instead.

On the other hand, it’s kind of bad, because everything is  _ wrong _ .

The fire may be burning now – and Inias obviously wasn’t kidding about liking potion-making, because he seems to enjoy making all sorts of powders and fresh poultices, even though the shelves are still full – but it’s nowhere near hot in the shop.

The other day, the kid actually put fresh plants in the window, and when Dean tried to explain the whole concept of Castiel’s display to him, he sheepishly said he knew that already, he just thought some flowers that actually looked good might attract more customers. He is probably right, but Dean exchanges them anyway, and Inias doesn’t stop him.

He’s okay enough with the bees, but Cas obviously left his own protection robes, and the look of someone else wearing them – especially someone who’s usually dressed in normal clothes, even if they are a bit hipster – is just wrong.

And the thought of someone other than Cas actually living upstairs turns Dean’s stomach.

He doesn’t tell this to Cas, obviously, who still phones in regularly. Just tells him the kid is doing okay.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Cas says, and his voice sounds a bit odd. Like he doesn’t know if he should be happy or disappointed.

“No way is he going to replace you any time soon, though. Still got a ton to teach him, I reckon.”

“Yes, of course. There is a lot more to dealing with this shop than greeting customers, making potions and checking mail orders. I’ll be curious how much he’s progressed when I see him again in the summer, though. Doing this on his own for a while should prove a good learning experience. And I truly do feel much better knowing someone is running the family business even in my absence.”

All Dean gets from that, however, is, “So you won’t be back in time to see him off?”

And Cas sounds regretful, but it can’t be anywhere near the heaviness spreading all through Dean’s body. Like he’s turning to stone now, too, Dean thinks for a second, and then feels infinitely worse.

“I’m afraid not. Things here are-… well, they require a bit longer than I’d hoped. But it’s better to be thorough.”

* * *

He asks Inias exactly once. What Castiel is doing in California. His answer sounds genuinely like he’d rather give a more comprehensive reply, but it is exactly what Dean was expecting.

“Can’t tell you, man. I’m sorry. It’s sort of a family thing. And if Cas hasn’t told you, I definitely can’t.”

He does pat Dean’s shoulder, in what he probably understands to be a consoling way. He looks like he feels sorry for Dean, and his eyes are a lot older, suddenly, and that’s a look that comes uncomfortably close to Castiel, too. 

Dean just mutely nods once or twice, and goes to get drunk at ‘Iron Will’.

* * *

The weeks pass, and Inias leaves for the academy again, leaving Dean alone with the empty shop once more. It becomes a depressing reminder, a living absence. The tree that once grew into the masonry of the house looks worse than ever, but Dean can’t be bothered to finally take a healing look at the poor thing.

As a matter of fact, he spends as little time as possible there. He takes perfunctory care of the plants, occasionally looks after the bees, and locks the place up tight.

He doesn’t tell Cas that it’s getting harder and harder for him each day. That his nightmares are almost exclusively about Castiel walking away from him without looking back now. That he looked through the rest of Ben’s stuff and didn’t even feel anything. That his bed is warm and cozy only in the mornings, when he almost can’t force himself to get up.

That he never really stops glancing diagonally across the street, hoping.

 

**_See me_ ** _ , the god has demanded since he came into being. _

**_See me_ ** _ , the god has asked since the other gods betrayed him and cast him into human form. _

**_See me_ ** _ , the god has begged, holding on to the last of his life. _

_ And a different sad man does. _


	15. Chapter 15

Almost two months after Dean last saw him, Castiel comes back. There is no message to warn Dean, no  _ ‘Come get me at the airport’ _ , just Castiel, pulling up in an old, very impractical and more than a little neglected-looking van when Dean is closing up his shop.

He looks as tired as Dean has felt a minute ago, when he gets out of the vehicle. Movements the kind of stiff you get after hours and hours of driving. Which, if he actually brought that pile of crap all the way from California, makes perfect sense.

“Cas?”

And Dean has had a long, hard day, after long, hard two months, and before that a long, hard life, and part of him stopped believing Cas would come back at all, and part of him lived for the day he did, but now, all he can do is literally break into a run and fall into his arms. Like this is some sort of fairy tale or musical or whatever other stories there might be where good triumphs over bad and everybody lives happily ever after with the people they love the most.

He’s holding too tightly, probably, but there is no way he is letting go any time soon. Especially because he slowly feels Castiel’s stiffness melting into a soft return of the embrace. One hand just over the small of Dean’s back, and the other dangerously close to the vulnerable nape of Dean’s neck.

“You’re back,” he whispers into Cas’ hair. It doesn’t smell like wood smoke right now, more like the inside of a musty old car and a shitty heater, but he can’t stop breathing it in. “You’re really back.” And it’s such a pointless, obvious statement, but when Castiel echoes “I’m back,” it doesn’t feel like it at all.

It’s Sage, actually, who makes them break apart at last. She’s appeared out of nowhere – he hasn’t seen her all day – but now she’s here, alternatively purring around their feet with a vengeance and tugging on Cas’ robes with her sharp little teeth.

Dean should know; she bit him a couple of weeks back, when he was feeling particularly self-pitying and hadn’t heard from Cas in a couple of days. He probably had it coming, harassing her with constant need for snuggles, but the sharp bite still came as a surprise. The puncture marks on his hand are barely visible now, but he’s been thinking about maybe getting them tattooed. Has been tracing them with biro and ink, as a reminder not to take assistance for granted.

He doesn’t let go of Castiel entirely, keeping his hand on his shoulder, even as they both go to their knees to stroke the excited little cat who is now meowing as if telling a story, and Castiel keeps saying things like “Is that so?” and “He really did that?”, as if he could understand her, and “I’ve missed you, too. You’re such a wonderful little cat. The absolute best kind of cat.”

After a while, Sage loses interest, and wanders off again, and they’re left alone, supporting each other as they tiredly stand back up.

“I see you’ve got a car now,” Dean says, voice carefully neutral about the state of it. A little amused maybe, but the second Cas turns his gentle smile upon the vehicle, he swears he’ll never mock the broken old thing.

“Yes. A cousin of mine was getting rid of it and I’ve never had a car before, so I figured I’d take it off her hands.”

“Have you had it checked out? Everything working okay?”

“There are a few hick-ups, but they should be easily fixed. It kept going all the way from California after all, so I suppose I could have done worse.”

“If you can afford to keep the shop closed half a day longer, I suppose we could go find a garage tomorrow morning.”

“Oh, that’s very kind, but you don’t need to come with me.”

As if Dean would let him out of his sight anytime soon.

“Cas. I’m sure it’s a good car. But even I can see it’ll need some more work than can be done in a few hours. You’ll need a ride home.”

“Can you afford to take half a day off?”

“For you? Stars yeah.”

It’s a bit too honest, maybe, but he can’t be bothered with holding back at the moment. Especially because Cas’ eyes become so very soft again, and his smile is the oddest thing between sad and unspeakably happy, and Dean loves him so much he could burst with it.

“It’s good to see you again, Dean.”

And Dean almost whimpers, but instead he asks, “Did you get everything done that you needed?”

Castiel, ever understanding him better than is probably healthy, gets those beautiful crinkles around his eyes again, and says, “I won’t need to leave for a while.”

And Dean can only shudder out a “Good,” and then turn away to hide the sudden tears of relief.

Cas gives him the space he needs to get himself back under control by getting his bags out of the van. There’s one more than when he left, but then again, when he left, he also didn’t have a car.

“Here, I’ll help you carry them inside. You look like basil three days without water, man.”

“Thank you, Dean. I appreciate it.”

“Your bees are fine, by the way. And your plants. We get along well, I think.”

“Yes, you’ve told me.”

“The hyacinth, too. It’s still at my place, but I’ll bring it by tomorrow.”

“It’s… doing well?”

“Yeah. The worst is over now, I think. If it survived that, it can survive anything. Well, for as long as hyacinths live, anyway. I mean, your magic is keeping it in decent shape, but it is kind of a fleeting plant, so it’s probably good you have a cat now.”

“Where did she go?”

Dean looks around, too, but the little cat seems to have scampered off to somewhere else.

“Well, I guess I’ll let you get some sleep now, huh?”

It’s probably the single most stupid sentence that has ever left his mouth. The last thing he wants is to let Cas out of his sight now that he’s back. He hasn’t exactly slept next to Cas in the best of circumstances yet – not even good circumstances, to be honest – but the thought of crawling into his own bed alone now has him want to offer to help Cas carry the bags upstairs instead. Not after all this time of almost forgetting the sheer physical relief Dean can get just from being around this guy at all.

He’s about to redact his sentence to something like, “Actually, would you mind if I brought up some fresh crystal water?”, which is actually an excellent excuse to not leave yet, when he sees Castiel smile in what looks like relief.

“Yes, I believe I’m sorely in need of it, thank you, Dean.”

“But I’m taking you out for breakfast. Tomorrow. When your car is in the shop.”

And Castiel’s eyes crinkle up again in that soft way that makes Dean go a little weak in the knees and restores his faith in humanity or something cheesy like that. He says, “I would like that very much.”

“Good.” Dean clears his throat. “Good.” And then he’s hugging Cas again, just one brief, tight squeeze, before he steps back again. Cas doesn’t even have time to reciprocate.

“It’s good to have you back, man.”

And if Dean’s voice sounds a little choked up, then that’s quite alright, because at least he’s not bawling into the guy’s shirt. He rubs the back of his neck, and abruptly turns around, and walks out of the door. The chimes play something slow and sad, but at least it’s a melody again.

* * *

Despite his fears to the contrary, Dean sleeps well, and wakes refreshed. It’s a little hard to navigate the toothbrush around his grin, and he may or may not have danced a few circles around a sleepy Sage.

Thwarting his best attempts at convincing her otherwise, she insisted on coming with him yesterday. Apparently, she was past the  _ ‘happy to have her friend back’ _ phase and had moved right into the  _ ‘pouting because he was gone so long’ _ chapter of their relationship. So instead of sleeping where Dean would have liked to be as well, which is somewhere on Cas’ bed, she’d made some ruckus with Pala until she finally fell asleep on her current favorite spot, which is a pot that should probably house a plant at some point, but so far is only full of little black cat.

“Up, up and away, little herb that helps against throat-aches and gives spiritual clarity!”

She only stretches her little feet high into the air and then goes right back to sleep.

Dean scoops her up, and enjoys her alarmed meow as he turns in a quick circle, holding her out to enjoy maximum whoosh. Pala cackles behind him, obviously as amused by this as Dean is.

He puts her back down before she can scratch him and tells both animals: “I’m going now. To hang out with Cas. Who is back. I can drop you off at the greenhouses if you want.”

And they do both follow him to the car, Pala enjoying the mild morning air and getting a head-start, Sage seemingly nonchalant, treading along the leather back seats with an expression of  _ ‘Oh how did I end up here? Ah well, might as well let the human drive me around in that great big purring beast of his.’ _

Dean keeps the music low enough not to annoy her too much, but he does sing along, drumming out soli on the steering wheel.

And when he pulls up at his garden market, there is Castiel, in a simple black robe Dean hasn’t seen before, and that he has apparently thrown on over jeans. It’s a pretty damn good look, but his smile is even better. Not to be completely dramatic, but this is the best Dean has felt in years.

He lets Sage out, who immediately struts past Cas without a glance and heads in the direction of Dean’s garden, and then he tries to school his features into something resembling anything other than the happiest son-of-a-bitch who walks the planet.

There is a part of him. A part that tells him to be appalled by this unabashed joy. That says how dare he even smile, let alone grin, when his son is dead. When he failed as both a donor of genes and a parent. When he left it all behind to let his ex-wife and friend deal with the mess on her own.

That part of him insists that it’d been less than two years, that the anniversary of Ben’s death was coming up. That it might be great he can handle his grief a bit better now, that he has reached out to Lisa again and is capable of acknowledging that he ever had a son, but it doesn’t mean he’s allowed to feel this good.

But right now, very selfishly, all Dean does is tell that part of him to go screw itself.

Because his best friend is back, and he looks phenomenal, and he smiles at Dean like he’s just as happy to see him.

“I’m afraid Sage might be mad at me,” he states, with a tiny, guilty-looking shrug that doesn’t wipe the sparkle out of his eyes.

Dean actually finger-guns, which he hasn’t done since his college days. “You might be onto something there.”

“You’ve spent more time with her than I have. Any advice on how I might win her back over?”

By all the magic in the world, he looks good with the sun making his hair a wonderfully wild play of shadow and pure gold. So, so good.

“Oh, she doesn’t need to be won over. She just needs the time to sulk.” He briefly turns enough to catch a decisive swish of cat tail around the corner. “A little wooing can’t hurt, though. We’ll pick up some snacks on the way back.”

Pala, at least, doesn’t seem to have a problem with Cas. Returning from her morning stand-off with the tree, she unceremoniously lands on Cas’ shoulder and doesn’t even give him time to flinch before good-naturedly pulling on his earlobe. Dean holds back an honest-to-the-stars guffaw as Cas first flinches, then laughs and begins to stroke the bird’s head.

“Come on now, Pala, we ain’t got all day!” Dean eventually hollers, when his chest feels too full to contain much more of this bright sunny morning of his best friend getting re-acquainted with his familiar.  

He holds his car door open for Cas on reflex, but he only ruefully points at his “new” car, and says, “I’ll follow you,” before getting behind his own wheel.

“Oh, right,” Dean says to no one at all, and in record time has his car running. He does know where a mechanic can be found – and maybe he takes a couple of more turns than necessary to keep Cas from clueing in about the fact that he could have just walked home after leaving his car there. In his rear-view mirror, Cas is the picture of focused contentment.

* * *

There’s really nothing all that interesting to observe at a regular mechanic’s garage. No phenomenal old-timers or classic cars, no great shows of magic. Technology has over the years remained one of the only things that hard to mix with magic, and only few people practice both at the same time. The range of people choosing to work with industrial parts vary from powerful fire and metal mages – who at least make some of their parts themselves – and people with low to no magical inclination.

Their mechanic, a guy who was probably rather dashing around forty years ago, seems to fall into the later category, until he starts swearing up a storm quite literally when the paperwork falls out of his grease-stained hands. He plucks the correct pages back out of the air, and then gives Cas a half-ironic thumbs-up as he tells him to call in a day or so, when Bill will have had the time to check the car out thoroughly, and be able to tell him the approximate time and price range of making that thing anything other than a death trap.

“One thing I can tell ya, breaks are shot. No clue how you got here all the way from California without wrapping yourself around a convenient lamp pole or nice ornamental tree. You’ll need new plates, too.”

Castiel, much to Dean’s silent pride, was smart enough not to mention money wasn’t an issue, but did emphasize he intended to keep this car, even if it couldn’t be made to run anywhere near like new. Bill grunted, and blew a breath out that ruffled a bucket near his feet.

“Interesting fellow,” Castiel remarks as they walk back to Dean’s car.

“I think he’ll do a good job, though. He’s too greasy to not take this shit seriously.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

Castiel is riding shotgun before Dean can even open up the door for him – which would probably have had some weird connotations anyway – and once more, Dean has a hard time keeping his seemingly immortal grin in check.

“It’s a good day, don’t you think?” He says, before rolling down his window, and leaning an elbow into the breeze while driving off. 

And obviously, Dean can’t take the time to really study him, but he’s pretty sure Cas is smiling when he says, “Yes, Dean.”

* * *

They have breakfast. They go shopping for cat snacks. They drive back to work and work side by side for the first time in months. Cas is smiling and open, and he looks stunning, be it in the dim heat of his shop, the soft rays of early summer sun falling into the crowded spaces of his greenhouse, in the airy orderliness that is Dean’s, or in his garden, conversing quietly with the bees. 

Dean is floating. He even accidentally gets a single mother’s phone number after he shoots the horse with her six-year-old with more ease than he’s ever even managed with his own kid.

Granted, Ben at six had already been partially paralyzed.

But today, he can let that rest as a small uneasy spot at the back of his mind. It’s a beautiful day, he had a good breakfast, his plants are growing better than they should, and his best friend is back. He is allowed one good day.

“Hey,” he says, nudging Cas’ shoulder as Cas carefully inspects the new plants Dean has gotten. A couple of weeks ago, Dean got a little stir-crazy and ordered some more exotic plants. He’s learned a lot caring for them, and even stocked up on rocks a little too expensive for his usual budget, and he has no idea if it was a good idea to branch out like this or not, but Cas certainly seems to like them.

“We should get a bite to eat tonight. A toast, maybe, even, to your triumphant return from horribly over the top California to the beautifully stable mediocracy of the Midwest. I go to ‘Wrought Iron’ every Thursday anyway.”

Castiel keeps working. Actually, he’s taking a while to answer, and when he does, it’s with a much more subdued, “I’m sorry, Dean, but I don’t think I’m up for it tonight. To be honest, I’m still rather exhausted from my trip, and taking a half day off has been fun, but I do have a lot to do until everything is up to my usual standards again. Inias is a nice kid, but he does still have a lot to learn until he can take over fully.”

“Oh.” Dean leans back a little, trying not to let his disappointment show too much. “Yeah. I get that.” Laughs a little awkwardly. “I guess I’ve kind of been monopolizing your time on top of everything else, too, huh?”

He walks over to a different row of plants, pretending to be very busy with them, but Cas must have caught his tone – of course he did – because when Dean is fleetingly looking up, he’s staring right at him.

“There is absolutely no one I would rather spend time with, Dean. Surely, you must understand that.”

And it’s a nice sentiment, and Cas says it in that especially gravelly tone he reserves for things he believes with all his heart. Even sounds a little unsure at the end. And Dean should just say,  _ “Me, too, Cas. Sorry, didn’t mean to guilt-trip you into anything, of course you have work.” _ Or maybe,  _ “Just tell me how I can help, yeah?” _ or maybe,  _ “I love you. I hope you get that, because it’s sort of the only good thing I’m made of anymore.” _

But despite the wonderful day he’s been having, and despite how much Cas really doesn’t need to be dealing with this at the moment, what comes out is, “Then why go away for two months?”

He looks at Cas now, looks at him fully. Sees him shrink under the question, but not even look for an answer.

“Why leave a kid who’s barely started training to run your business and just fly halfway across the country? What was so important there that you had to leave everything behind for so long?”

“I would like to tell you, Dean. But it’s not just my secret to share. Please, Dean. You need to believe I wish it hadn’t been necessary.”

There is something about Cas voice that makes Dean feel very small and very much like he shouldn’t have opened his mouth. It sounds like he’s pleading.

“Okay. Okay. I’m sorry.”

But Cas just barges right on, with steady, almost desperate conviction.

“If it were my choice, I’d never leave you again.”

And turns around and as walks out of the greenhouse. Sage jumps out from behind some bushes and follows him.

 

_ The other sad man sees him and the god – slow with time and fading strength – eventually understands he is the descendent of the seer who once called to him. _

_ His eyes do not linger, because he is not a seer himself, but neither do they pass over the god’s mortal form unseeing. _

_ Sometimes, he frowns. _

_ Sometimes, he gets the instinct to help. _


	16. Chapter 16

Cas isn’t waiting for him outside the next day, but if there’s one thing a night spent tossing and turning has taught Dean, it’s that they can’t leave it at that.

He wonders how often he’ll have to do this, stand in front of Cas’ door with a pounding heart, about to try to make up for having acted like a colossal dick. The window has more plants in them than usual, which makes him feel even worse.

Honestly, in the last few weeks it had become more and more difficult to make himself go help Inias out. Entering that shop and not coming across Cas somewhere in it felt so incredibly wrong he’d hardly been able to stand it. And it had been even worse when he’d come in one day not even expecting it anymore. He’d been a spare presence since then.

And after the kid’s departure, he went through it all on autopilot.

“Fuck,” he mutters, runs a hand over his face, and knocks on the door before trying the doorknob. The chimes play something that raises the hairs on his arms. Maybe at some point, when they’re on normal speaking terms again, Dean can convince Cas to take those down.

They meet in the doorway to the greenhouse, Cas opening the door at the exact moment Dean reaches out to do the same. For a moment, there is tense eye-contact. Then something around Cas’ eyes softens, and he whispers a low, “Hello Dean.”

And before Dean can get over himself long enough to open his mouth, Cas says, “I owe you an apology.” And leads Dean through the greenhouse and into the garden with a soft but decisive hand on his upper arm.

Dean is still figuring out how to say,  _ “No, it’s me, I shouldn’t have yelled at you, you clearly had your reasons.” _ But then they’re sitting on the bench, side by side, watching the first bees sleepily tumble out of their hive, off to find sweet nectar and provide for their family.

“I don’t have an explanation,” Castiel says at some point, and Dean chances a quick look at him. “But I am sorry. Causing you pain is-… it was not my intention.”

Dean finds his voice long enough to say, “I know that.” It sounds gruffy, but at least he’s talking.

“I want to do right by you, but it is difficult. It might be the most difficult challenge I’ve ever had to face. The reason I was gone-… had a lot to do with trying to do right by you.”

Dean doesn’t want to think about this, because it makes his hairs stand up and the young summer morning taste like frost. Like a threat to everything growing and living. He watches the bees instead.

“It is an old secret, in my family. And I’ve contemplated telling you so many times, but every single time I’ve come to the conclusion that it would not be fair to you. So all I can say is that I am sorry I left you here alone. And that I’ve missed you. And that sometimes, you make me want to be incredibly selfish. But that’s neither here nor there, and ultimately, quite irrelev-...”

Dean kisses him.

Just once. Nothing more than one short press of his lips to Castiel’s.

“Just-…” He looks away, at the herbs growing somewhere in the near distance. “Just stay for as long as you can.”

Castiel hesitantly lays his hand over Dean’s. Underneath it, Dean squeezes the bench tight.

* * *

Nothing changes after this. At least, they don’t change into anything new. What they do is go back to the close friendship they’ve shared before Castiel’s trip. They relax. They smile. They look at each other with clear, open fondness. They touch each other often, be it fleetingly in passing, or sitting close enough for their legs to be pressed together, or lingering and purposeful, to ground and to hold and to give strength.

Dean tells Cas about the rest of the stuff in the box, and while he stays calm and collected during this conversation, it’s still a far more emotional experience, and he is as glad for this as he is for the simple support of Cas’ rough hands folded around his.

Castiel tells Dean about his family. He shared a few anecdotes via text as well, but it’s much different to watch him reenact his reunion with his sister, who seems like the sweetest creature on earth unless facing their mother.

Dean learns a lot about the family. He also receives his own set of gardener’s robes, which Anna apparently specifically made for him after Cas told her about him.

They’re a rich green, robust but high-quality material, and the runes stitched in a lighter green and blue both protect against bee stings and help regulate temperature, meaning they’re good robes for outside work during winter and summer alike. He’s kind of in awe at them. Not only are they comfortable and apparently look good enough on him to make Cas blush very prettily, they are without a doubt the most expensive thing he now owns, and were given as matter of course as if he were a family member himself.

He is also a little bit uncomfortable with how much Castiel must have told her about Dean, because he found a few more runes stitched on the inside of the robes, right over his heart, and they are runes usually chosen to strengthen in times of crisis and lift burdens from weary souls.

It makes Dean wonder what runes may be hidden on the inseams of Castiel’s robes.

It’s a rare occurrence, seeing Cas in anything other than his robes. Even with summer rapidly approaching, his usual outfits remain more or less the same, and so does the amount of heat he has filling up his shop. But he’s far less bundled up outside, and this alone, Dean thinks of as a blessing.

He spends quite a lot of time just looking at Cas, with his eyes closed and head tilted towards the sun, and a small smile around his pale lips. He thinks maybe he smiles a lot more himself nowadays.

* * *

They pick up Cas’ car after two weeks, and in direct contradiction to this go for a celebratory drink, both finding parking spaces a few blocks away from ‘Wrought Iron’.

Their shoulders knock on the rest of the way there, and when they enter, Dean steers them right to the booth they were at before. It’s occupied, but Maria catches them looking for an empty one, and tells them to wait at the bar for a half hour or so, as she expects the occupants won’t stay much longer. Maybe Dean creeped them out, mouth-gapingly staring at the way the iron reacted to different individuals. Behind the woman, the wings are spread. Not triumphantly or ostentatiously, but far-reaching and slanting, as if landing. And the other woman is making the flowers bloom and grow, until a comfortable canopy has built over her, reaching towards her date.

He’s still looking back there as subtly as possible when Castiel takes his coat to put it away, and he slides onto a barstool.

“Dean! Two weeks, no see!” Eli greets him, as pleasantly flushed as ever, and Dean suddenly grows a little uncomfortable at the thought of how heavily he sometimes flirted with the barkeep while Cas was gone. Mostly to see him blush, to be honest, and because a semi-reawakened libido was still something to be marveled at, even if not tested.

“Yeah,” he almost awkwardly tells the guy, “Cas is back.”

And it does Eli a lot of credit that his first reaction isn’t disappointment, or even anger, both of which would have been justified, but a bright, earnest smile.

“That’s great news! Is he back to stay?”

“I hope so. At least for now he is, I think. We just picked up the piece of shit car he brought with him from the garage, and he hasn’t jumped into it and driven off yet, so I might be lucky.”

“I’ll make you guys something good, then. I’m really, really happy to hear that, Dean. You were so miserable the last few months.”

Dean shrugs apologetically, feeling a little defensive, even though it clearly wasn’t said with ill intention.

“That’s a permanent state, I’m afraid.”

It is very possible he told Eli a lot about missing Cas, and dying plants, and maybe even a few confusing things about bees, but he’s never mentioned any of his other pain.

“It’s not now,” Eli points out.

And he is absolutely right. Already, something soft tugs at the corners of his mouth as Castiel sits down next to him, and greets Eli with a kind and simple, “Hello.”

And if Dean overcompensated a little less for the sheer warmth that flows through him at having his friend next to him, he might have missed Eli’s reaction to Castiel.

Despite his seemingly overt, even exuberant nature, Eli has mastered subtlety. It’s barely more than a widening of his eyes, a small soundless breath raising his shoulders, and a glance darting lightning-fast from Castiel to Dean and back. And then, as if he had not discovered whatever it is that he discovered, he’s smiling again, and holds out his hand, and says, “You must be Cas! My name is Eli and I will be your bartender for the evening. And most other evenings. Whenever you come here, actually; I don’t have very many days off.”

They watch as he starts pulling bottles out of the artful rack behind him, and begins making two identical drinks, unbidden, and clearly meant for them.

“I think I know…,” he bites his lip even as his entire body calms the second he starts working with the fluids, “…exactly what you need.”

There is a simple artistry in the way he has complete control over the liquids. They mix together into something light green, milky, and slightly frothy. Dean has admired his magic in action many times, even found a certain kind of eroticism to it. An untouchable act of grace in a seemingly insecure young man.

“I haven’t made this one in a while, but it’s simple enough, and I think it will be perfect for both of you this evening…”

Dean isn’t really watching now, even as his eyes follow a quick stirring done entirely without spoon, which results in a suspended twirl of blue in the middle of their drinks.

He’s half caught up in trying not to think about the shock Eli is hiding so well now, and half debating with himself whether it’s okay for him to lean closer to the warmth of Castiel’s shoulder or not. He thinks of a quick dry press of lips and the fact that it hasn’t made anything awkward between them. That maybe, he could even have kissed him in a different context, drawn out the contact, and with heat behind it rather than quiet reassurance.

Just as he comes to the conclusion there is absolutely nothing stopping him from being as physically close to Castiel as he desires, Castiel himself shifts to look over his shoulder.

“They’re clearing our table,” he murmurs, and it’s nowhere near Dean’s ear, but it still sends something uncomfortably intimate into his entire body. He gives Dean a quick smile that does much of the same, and then says, “I should go speak with Joaquin.”

“Right.” Dean sounds oddly toneless, but it has nothing to do with lack of feeling. “Get that out of the way.”

“Got your drinks, too.” Eli sets down two identical unadorned glasses in front of them.

Dean sniffs at his drink and swirls it a little. It doesn’t smell like much of anything. Gin, maybe. “What’s the blue stuff?”

“Blue Curaçao.”

“No, I mean, what does it do?”

“It makes a pretty blue spiral.” Eli wiggles his eyebrows and smiles his most enthusiastic smile.

“Gotcha.”

Cas gets off the high chair, for a moment holding on to Dean to get to the ground safely, a solid weight leaning on Dean’s shoulder. 

“I will be right back, Dean.”

“Hey.” Dean holds him back with two glasses outstretched before him. “At least clink glasses with me before you abandon me for the scariest person on earth.”

Cas smiles indulgently and does as he is told. The liquid is cool in Dean’s mouth, far colder than the lack of ice inside accounts for, and at the first moment, as tasteless as it is without obvious effect.

And then the potency hits, and Dean slams the glass back down and presses his eyes closed. He can feel his jaw clench unnaturally, even as Castiel mutters a distraught, “Excuse me.” His steps are quiet, but they’re all Dean can hear. Walking away from him. Leaving him.  _ Leaving _ him.

“Take those back, and make us different drinks,” he forces out, and finally looks at Eli.

It’s by far the strongest concoction of alcohol magic Eli has given him so far, and remnants of the influence still linger. It is as obvious as anything that Eli is sad, even as his face has the same unguarded expression as ever. Sad for him, and for Cas, and that he should have to see so clearly what Dean needs a drink to face.

“I call them  _ Clarity _ ,” he says, with no trace of the apologetic shrug Dean might have expected. It’s a simple statement, with a highly unwanted edge of heavy compassion to it. 

“Take them back.”

Dean finds he is breathing unevenly and tries to tell himself it’s only the anger. He knows it is not. 

“Dean, you have to see. You both do.”

“If I wanted to see,” he is saying through gritted teeth, “I would have done so months ago.”

And the dawning of understanding on Eli’s sweet face makes Dean want to put a fist into it. “You did see it months ago.”

He doesn’t answer. It’s not really a question.

“Take them back.”  

* * *

There is exactly one thing a complete stranger with strong magic affinity would want to talk to Castiel about, and it is the thing Dean does not want to talk about. He can’t stand to be here, suddenly. Not one minute longer.

He doesn’t pay Eli for the drinks, and he can’t even be bothered to wave away the apology that comes too late. He stays at the bar exactly as long as it takes for his mind to go back to normal, but the second he feels the effects have worn off, he is grabbing both his and Cas’ jacket, and looking for him.

There is something hot and painful inside him, unwilling to be dislodged now that he was tricked into confronting it. He tries to swallow past it, and can’t, but at least it means he couldn’t care less about how Joaquin usually freaks him out, and straight up walks up to the guy.

“Where’s Cas?”

True to form, Joaquin does not speak. Dean follows his long spindly fingers out the door.

It’s a beautiful night outside, and for a moment, Dean even thinks he might be able to breathe again at the sight of stars, visible even through the thick layer of life in the city.

Then he catches Castiel’s silhouette, with his arms wrapped around himself. It’s an outline of black against the orange far-off glow of a streetlight, but the stark contrast only enhances how small he looks, and how narrow his shoulders are underneath those robes.

And Dean can’t breathe any easier at all. There is a reason he never lets himself think about this.

“Hey,” he finally bites out, and it is gruff and loud in the subdued quiet of the street. Cas breathes in once, then locks in all the air. It makes him look like a scared child, and Dean cannot deal. “I’m going home.”

He cannot bother with excuses at the moment. He can barely speak through the anger rattling through him, and the grief he has buried breaking open every carefully stitched up wound. 

“You coming, too?”

Cas breathes out, and Dean loves him so fiercely he wants to scream and rage until there is nothing left of it.

“Yes.”

He tosses him his coat rather than giving it to him, physical proximity now an impossibility.

They don’t speak on the way to where they parked, and they move at such different paces Dean has to stop and wait for Cas to catch up twice before they reach their respective cars.

“Goodnight, Dean.” Castiel’s voice is as quiet as his movements. Dean is already in his own car and drives off before Castiel can even turn on the lights.

* * *

He takes one of the dreamless sleep potions almost without pause, undresses in the most utilitarian way possible and wakes up with a steadily empty head. He thinks about staying in bed, but doesn’t, thinks about staying in his kitchen, but doesn’t. Pala leaves him alone, as she’s left him alone last night.

He drives to work, half expects Cas to be waiting for him. He isn’t. It’s a brilliant May morning, like a mockery of itself. There are wisps of pink clouds clinging to the fiery horizon still, and around him, birds are singing in jubilation. He looks at his hands, and at his plants, and at his rocks. He doesn’t let water soothe him, his relationship to it for once utterly impersonal.

Not even Sage bothers him, and when he locks up for the night, Cas isn’t there, either.

He drives into town, finds an apothecary and buys as many vials as they’ll give him of the most potent sleep medication available without prescription. They work slower, and far less abruptly, and he has a few moments too many to think before he is pulled under. He spends these moments screaming into his pillow.

* * *

The days pass, and Cas doesn’t show up. Dean doesn’t bother making sure his shop is open or the dying plants get exchanged. Cas can call his dick brother, if he’s too sick to do the job himself. Or pull Inias out of the academy, as he might have to anyway.

Dean is done. Dean can’t do this again.

 

_ But because the man is only the descendent of a seer, and the god has always been called invisible, he forgets about it again. _

_ Forgets and despairs that the man the god has bound himself to is slipping away from him. _


	17. Chapter 17

May passes into June, and the thick coil of anger inside Dean does not loosen. Sleep remains hard-won, either with exerting himself physically, or with vials upon vials of sleeping aids. He is perfectly aware he’s on a dangerous path, as he is perfectly aware of other things that feel like acid eating through every part of him, but he can’t really see why he should bother taking care of himself anymore. It is as much self-protection as it is punishment. 

His plants aren’t neglected, but even they are feeling the absence, both of another, soothing presence, of hands gently coaxing and soft nurturing magic flowing through them, and of Dean’s own care.

He forgets about Sage, who never comes to visit anymore, and stops asking himself if she simply notices that she’s no longer welcome, or if she’s busy taking care of Cas. Pala is angry at him, and whenever she gets over it long enough to be worried about him, he pushes her away.

Lisa checks in, but he doesn’t answer her email. 

* * *

And then, one day, he sees Cas. It’s just dumb luck, really, because he never even glances over there anymore. But he’s carrying a couple of ferns he’s supposed to deliver into his truck, and out of the corner of his eyes spots movement in Cas’ display window. And then he’s looking and the fern hits the loading area at an odd angle, but he barely even notices.

He’s at Cas’ window before he understands that’s where he’s going, and then Cas’ eyes are meeting his, and it’s a mildly startled, open gaze meeting the emotionless wall that Dean is probably presenting, and his breathing is wonky and painful, and he can barely do it at all.

And then Cas turns away. Deliberately and abruptly. He goes back to placing his plant in the window. His hand is shaking slightly as he sets it down and turns its still green leaves towards the light, but other than that, it’s a perfect pretense he never even saw Dean at all.

And Dean should take the out he’s so obviously given. He should turn around and walk back to his truck, and his delivery, and his cold, empty life that doesn’t have any of this hanging over him.

Sweltering heat assaults him the second he has pushed through the door, but it’s as distant a sensation as the chimes and their new horrifying composition. Cas is just righting himself from crawling back out of the window.

There are notions, suddenly, of how this could go. How he could barrel on and draw Cas into his arms and hold him there until they both suffocate from the heaviness in his chest. How he could drop to his knees in front of him and sob into Cas’ legs like some romantic hero. Cas looks at him as though he half expects Dean to punch him.

He comes to a standstill a few steps away from Cas. His eyes on Dean are wary and sorrowful, and something too difficult for Dean to understand. Very likely, physical contact is the last thing he wants. Dean can’t imagine it either, suddenly. Can’t think of a single thing that can make it past the tightness in his throat. 

He searches for something to say for a long time. Finally, Castiel takes a deep breath, and says, “We could go back to pretending you don’t know, if that helps.”

And because Cas is a far better person than Dean will ever be, it sounds like nothing more and nothing less than a genuine offer. Dean has missed his voice.

“It was never spoken. And I won’t say it. I was never going to.”

And Dean should say, “ _ I know you weren’t, _ ” because he does know that, but all that comes out is this small, horrible sound that sounds like limbs turning to stone, and hospital rooms, and yelling at his best friend for something they can’t change.

Cas looks as though all the air leaves him at once, a sudden and complete turn from careful compassion to  _ condolence _ . “Dean…”

And Dean tries to say anything at all, but he can’t breathe right, and hot wetness flows out of his eyes unbiddenly.

Cas says his name again, and it’s even worse this time. Dean can’t see properly, but he must have come closer, because the shelf Dean was leaning against is no longer the only thing holding him up. He muffles a sob into the crook of a beloved neck, right where warm, dry skin meets the soft material of an expensive robe. Cas’ hair tickles his temple and one of Cas’ hands settles gently on the back of his neck. His thumb draws a soothing pattern into his shirt. A rune maybe, even.

He doesn’t think he can move enough to turn the embrace into anything other than this one-sided giving of comfort, but his arms wrap around Cas and draw him even closer. Cas’ hand on Dean’s back turns into a fist clutched into fabric and he drops his own head to rest on top of Dean’s. He feels kisses in his hair, then murmurs, and then, finally, just slow, deep breaths that even out those rattling around his own chest. 

They stand like that for a long time.

* * *

Eventually, Dean lets Cas lead him up to his apartment. “I’ll make us some tea,” Cas says, and Dean nods mutely.

Things are beginning to shift again, inside of him. He hasn’t been particularly fond of himself in the last few weeks, and it should be far worse, now. And yet, following Castiel is the easiest thing he’s done since walking away. His entire body feels lighter, his steps unsure with how easy it is to carry himself. It might be his hollow bones, or it might just be the simple fact that someone is about to take care of him, now. Even if it should be the other way around.

“Please, sit.”

Dean does.

Outside the window, he can see his loaded truck still waiting outside the greenhouse, and while Cas puts on his kettle in the kitchen, he writes a quick message to the customer, saying there will be some delay. Then looks out again. On the table, the hyacinth is blossoming its last.

Cas puts the tea down between them, a cup each, and Dean carefully brings it to his lips. The sweet flavor of honey almost overwhelms the taste of the tea. He hasn’t had either in weeks, and it feels almost as good as his best friend sitting down opposite of him, their knees lightly touching under the table.

“I do want to talk about it,” he says eventually, and Castiel looks up at him and stays silent. “I don’t want to pretend I don’t know.”

“You’ve known for a long time.”

“I didn’t want to.”

“I understand.”

“No, Cas, I’ve been a shitty friend.”

A moment passes, in which Cas is clearly wrestling with himself not to object to this. Dean’s gaze dares him not to. They both know Dean has his reasons, but it doesn’t make his statement any less true.

Cas’s eyes land steadily on his then, and he breathes out almost imperceptibly. “Ask it, then.”

And Dean breathes out, as well.

“How long do you have?”

* * *

Dean wakes up first. Against his chest, he can feel Cas’ heartbeat, as slow and steady as his own. They both slept without a bad dream. Outside, the world is still dark, but Dean feels rested like he hasn’t in weeks. It won’t last, like so many things, but at the moment, he is entirely at peace.

He presses a kiss to the soft mess of hair at the back of Cas’ head, and then stays there to breathe in the woodsmoke scent that has reclaimed his friend since he came back from California. Or wherever he was.

There were more stops in his journey, Dean knows now. Hospital beds and private practices all across the country. Maybe some other countries as well.

He holds on tighter to the sleepy warmth against him, then reluctantly rolls onto his back and blinks at the ceiling. The sky outside isn’t entirely dark anymore, first hues of violet and blue indicating dawn is just a turn of the earth away.

He makes sure the covers are still safely draped over Castiel and gets on his feet.

After using the toilet and rinsing out his mouth, he ambles over to the kitchen, then decides he’s not in the mood for any sort of breakfast yet, and quietly goes downstairs instead. Distantly, he wonders how it’s possible he can even still enter Cas’ apartment without getting triggered in all sorts of directions, but his shoulders still feel loose and his breath even as he carefully closes the door behind him.

He doesn’t really know what he’s going to do now, and just walks along the shelves for a bit. He doesn’t pull out any of the potions, but he does run his fingers over some of the labels, the writing a decorative but easily readable cursive that he identifies as Castiel’s own unhurried hand. There are only a few labeled in a narrower, spikier scrawl. Cas’ uncle’s work, probably. The man who died of the family curse before it passed to Castiel.

After taking a random turn, he is facing the display window, the silhouettes of sweetly cared for plans contrasted against the pale beginnings of a rising sun. His heart beats once, painfully, decisively, and he gives them a nod before turning on his heels and walking to the greenhouse.

Inside, the air is as warm and humid as ever, and he breathes in the smell of the earth, and the rich supply of plant-made oxygen and almost smiles. There isn’t much light coming through the green-tinged glass panels yet, but he doesn’t turn on a light. No bees in here this early, and he knows his way around well enough to get by without bruising his shins.

He lays a hand on the earth of the flower bed nearest to him and lets the minerals and lingering water tell their story. The soil is well tended, maintained with whatever leftover mixtures Dean brought Cas at some point. He must be running low, now. There’s also a new plant at the far end of the bed, that Dean probably would have planted into different soil. He makes a mental note to bring some citreol as well as more of the usual later.

He goes through every flower bed like this. Feels out the soil and in one case applies a bit of water he quickly enriched with his magic. And he’s not equipped for sensing the remnants of other people’s skills, but he knows whatever magic Castiel still has, he pours into his plants. He can almost feel the slow, steady devotion, can almost see that sad smile and the hunched over shoulders beneath a too-warm robe.

There are things he wonders at, things he grieves, both in retrospect and in advance, questions he still needs to ask Cas and answer himself. But at the moment, as the strong summer sun slowly bleeds light into the greenhouse, he is content to simply feel out his magic.

He is almost finished when the door to the glass building creeks open and closed again and Cas’ steady presence finds its way next to him. He loves the look of those broad, calloused hands feeling the magic coursing through his plants alongside his own. Loves them so fiercely his chest feels too wide.

Dean takes a deep breath and can feel Castiel’s own shoulders rising next to him.

They have time, still.

Wordlessly, they once more go through every single flower bed together. 

 

_ The man the god is sharing a life force with believes he has years left. _

_ The god has been listening. The god knows that he has asked healers all over the world what was wrong with him. That he has been trying to live, for the sake of the seer’s descendent. _

_ The healers do not know of the involvement of a god. They have no answers. They can tell only the state the man’s body is in now. They do not know how close the god is to dying. They do not understand the man is running out of time faster than his ancestors did. _


	18. Chapter 18

The Novak Herb and Potion Shop is a remnant of a time long gone by. Castiel knows this. It couldn’t be more obvious, really. The street it is situated on was maybe once part of a flourishing neighborhood, but unlike such places usually tend to do, instead of growing further and eventually forming the core of a new town, it remained on the outskirts of a larger one whose bustling center ended up being more than a few minutes by bicycle away. More houses were torn down than built, and after a while, only few families remained there.

The Novak emporium, of course, had long since moved on from its original location, with its extensive family opening more and more subbranches of it all over the country, and eventually even extending those branches further into businesses that had little to do anymore with traditional potion making and herb tending.

Still, as much as Castiel’s family went with the tide of the times, they never gave up on that old house in which everything began, nor on the grounds surrounding them.

So when the long-empty lot situated diagonally across the street from the shop got sold, not only were the Novaks informed, they had their hands deep in the transaction.

From behind his windows, Castiel saw the land be made plain, and subsequently filled with several large greenhouses. They were far more modern than Castiel’s own, and for a while, he assumed they would belong to a new florist. It was a frustrating time, and he stopped watching the construction. He did wish he’d have been warned about it by his busy-body aunt, who has the family’s finances in her orange-clawed grasp. All she told him was that the offer for the land hadn’t been as good as one might have gotten back in the 1800s, but that the man she’d bargained with had been charming enough, and blessed with both financial stability and great magical abilities. 

Even if it did turn out he bought the property for his brother.

Now, officially, Castiel is not the kind of person who begrudges anyone the work with plants. Still, he has an inherent distrust and probably unjustified dislike against florists. The reason for this is, of course, that the plants they tend to mostly get cut off and arranged into attractive-looking but very doomed bouquets. By all means, he understands the aesthetic appreciation of flowers. He even likes the practice of giving them to spouses or relatives or friends to bring them joy.

But he doesn’t understand why they have to die for this to happen. Honestly, he can’t imagine that a single person working as a florist even has the mildest inclinations towards herbal magic, even though, of course, very many bouquets are textbook arrangements with themes like ‘Get Well Soon’ and ‘Please Forgive Me’. The flowers used in them might even work, to a small degree. But in the end, he simply has a problem with imagining them die to so little benefit.

It is part of his own job, of course, to cut off parts of the plants he raises himself, and work them into suitable forms for potions, poultices or whatever else they might be useful in. But it’s the part of the job he likes least, and he always makes certain that the death is absolutely necessary before pulling out a knife. For the most part, whenever it is possible, he only takes a small part of the growing plant. Something that won’t hurt its life-force. But he has felt too much die in his hands, and it’s becoming by far the most distressing part of being the latest recipient of the Novak family curse.

He’s still a good herbalist. Better than most, even. But since Meg died, his grip on his magic has been slipping, and more and more of his plants become unsalvageable.

So florists, despite surely playing a large part in bringing appreciation for flowers and their (muted) healing powers into the world, are a difficult subject for him, and the thought of being faced with one as a neighbor – even if only diagonally across from his home – is making him queasy and sad.

He stops looking out the windows when he arranges his own doomed flowers. He doesn’t want to think of any more death happening anywhere near him. Especially not deliberate killings.

Castiel is very aware that he’s being overdramatic, but he is dying. He’s entitled.

And this is how, even when the sign on the new greenhouses ends up reading ‘Green Garden Market’ instead of ‘Florist Who Doesn’t Care About Plants’, he never does go out to greet his neighbor. That, and the fact that apart from the few customers who come here in person, he tends to avoid people in general since his diagnosis.

The truth is, it looks nice, when it is finished. Gleaming glass rapidly filling with healthy green. Orderly. Neat. Tended to regularly and by someone unafraid to put in extra hours. Castiel can see him sometimes, when he looks out of his apartment during a meal, or simply because the bay windows afford a spectacular view of the sunrise. He’s far away, of course, but it always is the same man, he is sure.

Sometimes, Castiel even gets the strange urge to walk over there and introduce himself. Be neighborly. Maybe bring a plant.      

But there’s no point. He never was good at making friends, and knowing he only has four or five good years left has made him more than cautious about developing any sort of relationship with someone who might have to grieve him when he’s gone. It’s maudlin, but really, he’s watched it too many times. What getting attached to a dying person does to someone.

It doesn’t matter so much, that he’s lonely. He’s been lonely all his life. And maybe, his new neighbor isn’t even someone who cares about plants after all. Maybe he also offers cut flowers and doesn’t feel their life force ebbing away. Maybe he’s only at the greenhouses so long because there’s money to be made in well-tended plants.

Maybe it’s just too late for Castiel to get involved in anybody else’s life, either.

* * *

Castiel meets a sad, desperate man with a keen sensibility for death and falls in love halfway into being yelled at.

He falls in love halfway into listening to Dean speak about minerals, a topic Castiel himself has never much cared about. 

He falls in love holding Dean’s hand and channelling his emotions while he tries to put words to the unspeakable loss he has experienced. 

He falls in love as Dean almost kills the hyazinth he gave Castiel. 

He falls in love with Dean in the sunlight of both their gardens, in the green humidity of both their greenhouses, in the dimness of both their living spaces. 

He falls in love as Dean gifts him with a little black cat who is too magical not to be a familiar who doesn’t want a mage. (He also falls in love with the little black cat, but that’s a different story.)

He falls in love a thousand times, a thousand ways, with one man. He falls in love perfectly aware of his own folly, his own inadequacy, his own selfishness. He falls in love with the love Dean begins to feel for him. And he grieves it.  

* * * 

He tells Dean everything, now.

The first person whose death from the family curse Castiel witnessed was his grandfather’s. He was very young when it happened, and as usual, the family kept the children from seeing more than they needed to of the process. Still, he remembers some of the impressions, and finds it difficult to bring them in congruence with later experiences.

The room, for example, seemed much smaller then. He later justifies this by the sheer amount of distant relatives present inside it for a moment, but there definitely was a feeling of beautifully decorated walls suffocating those between them. It followed him into his nightmares, and swallowed any real memories of his grandfather himself.

He must have been at the third stage, when constant pain slowly turns into complete apathy, and then, stillness. Castiel remembers him looking scared, but everyone else kept talking about how good he still looked that day.  

His grandfather was fifty-one when he died.

His uncle was fifty-eight.

Castiel remembers having just started his independent studies at the academy when it began. The usual, devastating symptom: death of familiar. Weakening of magic, and loss of a trusted companion. His mother wrote him, the words uncharacteristically emotional. It’s the truly horrible thing about this curse: you begin mourning a long time before it ends up killing the person selected.

Even inside the safe circle of his family, Castiel was not the most social person, and the curse had terrified him all his life. So he didn’t visit as often as he probably should have, and threw himself into his studies instead. Even as he realized he could not avoid this forever.

His uncle, ever the pragmatic, good-natured type, did not take it as a personal affront, and treated Castiel as warmly as ever, with various ill-received jokes about his certain demise thrown in. It made it infinitely more difficult, when the next stage began, and he started physically waning in addition to losing a great deal of his magical capabilities.

The laughs were more strained now, with a barely hidden desperate edge, and Castiel made himself even more scarce. Until finally, he graduated and could no longer stay away from the old Novak empire. It was bad luck, that out of everyone, it had chosen the person responsible for the heart of the family’s wealth: the man responsible for the old mansion, and the greenhouse, and the selective potion and herb business.

It was clear that these were the footsteps for Castiel to follow, and had his uncle not been dying, he would have done so gladly. He had helped out, for several summers, of course. Every single family member at some point worked at the shop. His uncle had been delighted, that after a generation in which he’d been the one best suited for the job, finally a mage suited for all aspects of the business was to follow. And Castiel had felt honored.

Then, standing in front of that old door, a single bag in hand, it was a different feeling. The training he had been looking forward to could not be postponed any longer, because he needed to understand every intricacy of the business before his uncle entered the next stage.

“No worries, we’ll get you there,” he’d said, and clapped Castiel on the back with a fraction of the strength Castiel was used to. Castiel wanted to leave.

His uncle was a herbalist as well, but stronger as a wind mage, so he’d added a small windmill in the garden, and made electricity out of it. This was before the age of the internet, of course, but it did provide them with enough power to not have to bother with outside firms. As most Novaks, his uncle Joshua preferred to keep themselves separate from the rest of the world.

In the beginning, things were awkward, as Joshua kept trying to connect to Castiel via jokes, and Castiel either failed to understand or simply did not think death a joking matter. There was a desperate need in him to keep himself locked away from all personal interactions with his uncle, because he knew in his heart his death would not be easily recovered from.

He learned fast, and spent most evenings producing potions and filling the shelves while his uncle retired in front of the television. He diligently ignored the days when Joshua could not come downstairs to run the shop, and did it himself.

“Please rest, I don’t need your help for this,” he remembers saying, and still feels shame at how his uncle deflated at that, as if his last reasons for getting himself through the day were gone.

Later, he tried to atone for it. Faced himself in the mirror and categorically destroyed himself with observations of how cold he was in the face of a dying man. Then tried to do better.

As with most things, he began with research. Into the family curse itself – by way of asking any family member but his uncle, and by reading through the journals left behind by ancestors – and then, when he knew all he could, about how to take care of someone without stripping them off their agency. And then, because even with reading all he could on the subject, it did not mean he became any more socially adapt or intuitive enough not to seem very forced when trying to implement the methods learned, into assistance within his field: potions and herbs.

Some things did not work, even though Joshua indulged him with attempts: Anything to actually improve the physical symptoms was a study in futility. But Castiel found he could – at least in part – help stabilize his uncle’s magic. As long as the curse had been in the family, the second stage included a waxing and waning of magical abilities. Castiel found a way to keep it constant. Nowhere near as powerful as it used to be – a mere shadow of it, really – but accessible, and a definite comfort.

Anna soon chimed in with additional ideas, taking over some of the properties of the more dangerous potions with carefully crafted, powerful rune work. The traditional robes soon became adorned with them, subtly placed, almost decorative-seeming or hidden inside.

Another field where Castiel was – to everyone’s surprise – successful, was helping with the emotional toll the curse took on his uncle. As much as Joshua always tried to appear positive, it was a difficult fate, and having had the too-distant Castiel as a sole companion for most of the time had not contributed to good mental health.

Castiel excelled at potion making, and at using the herb’s magical components to their fullest potential. After a very focused period of attempts, he even managed to distill the hoped for emotional stability into teas, and not only did they cheer Joshua up, they became high-priced bestsellers.

Except this kind of acceptance took its own toll, and when Castiel noticed his uncle’s complete dependency upon a combination of different potions, he had to work even harder at balancing it out. His mother had to step in to lend his uncle emotional stability through her channeling, and even so, it was difficult to get him to use less of the too-effective helpers. Castiel’s aunt submitted the concoctions to inspection by official healers, and several of them were from then on only available after prescription.

Still, even this more professional and less personal way of taking care of his uncle opened up new ways of communication between them. Conversations grew far less stilted, Castiel learned to laugh at some of the jokes, and he stopped shying away from contact.

In the end, being separated from his uncle was jarring, because he’d been taking care of him for so long.

But the third stage meant complete dependence, and within their family, there was a very clear path to take from then on. Joshua was moved into the room once occupied by Castiel’s grandfather. And despite his trepidation, Castiel visited often, and found the room to be a lot less horrible than it had once appeared.

Joshua grew less responsive, but one of Castiel’s more caring and interpersonally talented cousins took care of him respectfully, and warmly, and he was often brought outside to sit in the gardens, and the curtains were open for as long as Joshua could bear it.

Normally, the third stage lasts roughly a year before the end comes. Joshua held on only nine months. 

Two weeks after the funeral, Castiel noticed Meg getting sick.

* * *

“There is no one who can help,” he says, as they sit in the garden, summer heat surrounding them. He hardly feels it, but at least he isn’t cold at the moment. “No healer, no doctor, no curse-breaker has ever been able to even grab hold of what it is exactly that makes us fade. We know that it happens and we know how it happens, but we cannot be saved.”

“Why were you at your parents’ place for so long?” Dean asks. He’s not looking at Castiel exactly, more at the grass in front of him. He isn’t wearing shoes and Castiel almost wishes his feet were bare as well. It is pleasant to be connected to plants in this way. But one of his hand is firmly in Dean’s and this takes precedence. 

“I did visit my parents,” Castiel admits, finding himself glad to be able to speak of it at last. He had upset Dean greatly with his absence. “But it was not the reason for how long I was gone. I wanted to be sure. That no one could help.”

“Why? If there has never been any- any chance.”

“You know why.” When he looks at Dean, he is still stubbornly looking at the grass between his toes. “And before you ask, things have not changed since my uncle’s passing. No one can even tell how far into the second stage I am.”

“I thought you said you had five years?”

“Three to five. Statistically speaking. Dean. I would not blame you. If you left.”

Dean smiles without joy. “Yeah, I get that,” he says and shakes his head. “I can’t fucking stand the thought of you dying in some room full of curtains and me maybe finding out about it a couple of years later by accident because we weren’t speaking anymore. I can’t do that, Cas. I don’t want to.” And finally, he looks at Castiel, eyes bright and burning and so beautiful it is difficult to cope. His words are firm. “And I definitely don’t want to miss out on what we have now just because it’ll get bad later.”

It is Castiel now, who looks away.  

“Then I cannot be the only thing.”

“What do you mean?”

“I cannot be the only thing that tethers you. If you see me through this, I need to know that you have a larger support system. Things you care about. Other people. You cannot go back to how it was before you met me; it would destroy you.”

Dean thinks about it for a long time. Finally, his shoulders drop, though not in a way that indicate exhaustion. “I agree,” he says. “You can’t be the only thing that matters anymore. But Cas. You’ve got to know you’re the thing that matters  _ most _ .” 

 

_ And so the man himself believes he still has some time, still. _

_ He is no longer hiding from the seer’s descendent. They are happy, in the small, fragile way that comes with knowing it will end. _

_ But the god is dying fast, and so must the man. _


	19. Chapter 19

Dean learns now what he has not accomplished while Ben was growing towards his inevitable end: to ignore the passage of time. 

They are floating within it, it seems to him. For the moment safe inside a small bubble of time which cannot be touched by anything ugly; in a place where transience does not exist. ‘Spending time’ has yet to become more than just a phrase. For now, they are  _ living _ time, and do not mourn its passing.  

It feels as though, with this last secret gone between them, they both experience a new kind of freedom with each other. At times, it feels light; like Sunday afternoons sitting side by side in one of their gardens, idly watching the bees buzz and tumble joyfully into the warm summer air. The grass is warm and alive beneath them, and Castiel describes what it is like for him to feel everything in bloom. His eyes are as blue as the nearby cornflowers and their corners crinkled with happiness and when Dean takes his hand, Cas doesn’t hesitate to thread their fingers together. It’s too hot to hold hands, but neither of them seems much inclined to let go afterwards. 

At times, it feels solemn; like Cas’ explanations over how to handle his bees, which Dean himself asked him to give. Cas’ eyes are blue like the sky behind him and the thread of the runes in the seam of his hood are the colour of honey. He wonders whether Cas’ lips will taste of honey, but gets distracted from the resolve to find out by a bee flying into his sleeve. Dean is wearing the robes Anna made for him, and he doesn’t know if the runes are that powerful or if the bee simply decided to spare them all one more death, but he does not get stung. 

And at times, it simply feels right; like lying in Cas’ bed together, Sage curled up somewhere near, but not between them, and Pala sitting on the windowsill, surveying the outside space while they rest. It is not spoken between them, that they no longer spend their nights apart. They rarely go to Dean’s place, because Cas’ is simply more conveniently located. They hold hands, most of the time, and since Cas unpacked his summer curtains, which keep the heat out rather excellently, sometimes, they hold each other.

It is strange, in a way, how little Dean cares about turning these shared nights into anything other than platonic. Perhaps he is old now, despite his lack of years. Arousal has not happened a lot since Ben grew ill, and on the rare occasions he finds himself or Castiel affected by sleep and proximity, they both seem to ignore it well enough. It fades. It doesn’t matter. It is not responsible for when he suddenly startles from the half-comfortable almost sleep he has to be grateful to achieve now. 

It is early, still; the sun has barely set and the moon has not yet risen very high. The world is a comfortable thing between falling asleep and lying in starlight. Dean still has problems with doing the former now that he has quit taking potions. Cas offered to brew him something to help with the transition, but he declined it. It feels like penance, sometimes. The hours spent staring at Cas, whose chest rises and falls gently underneath the blanket. More often it feels like a reward. An impossible reward he has done nothing to deserve. To count out those breaths and almost be able to dismiss that they are numbered. And to be there should Cas’ body go tight with a nightmare. 

Tonight, Cas is not asleep yet, though his eyes are closed. 

“Hey Cas,” Dean says quietly into the balmy air, and they flutter open. 

“I think I’m ready,” Dean says, and lifts their intertwined hands to his mouth. He presses a kiss to one of Cas knuckles. 

For a long time, Cas doesn’t say anything as Dean’s lips caress his fingers. His eyes are very dark in the night, his cheekbones sharply illuminated by the strange angle of the waxing moon. 

“I suppose I cannot hurt you more than I already will,” he says finally, almost quieter than Dean. 

“Nope,” says Dean and presses a kiss to Cas’ wrist. “Maximum pain already achieved. You can’t make losing you any worse.” 

“Then have all the rest of me. Let me have all the rest of you. Let me rest in you. I have allowed myself to love you in every way but this.”

Breathing becomes painful, so Dean does it against the pulse in Castiel’s neck. 

“Think you can do it?” he finally rasps out, and it’s a more serious joke than he intended. 

“Oh Dean,” says Cas, and Dean cuts him off with a kiss before he can say more things more romantic than Dean will ever be able to fabricate. 

* * *

Later, Castiel is stroking Dean’s naked back and whispering into his hair, “Nothing has ever been easier than loving you.”

Dean shivers and turns his face into the pillow and  _ agrees, agrees, agrees _ .

* * * 

In the absence of time, they explore each other without urgency. Dean reaches a new height of appreciation for Cas’ burn-calloused hands, while Cas grows especially fond of Dean’s lips. It is sweet and gentle and so natural it feels as though they’ve never done anything else. 

Dean hasn’t been touch-starved in a while, but there still is nothing he likes better than to feel Cas’ skin against his own. He loves it as a prelude to sex, he loves it during sex, he loves it afterwards most maybe, when he can feel Cas in the cooling sweat between them, and he loves it even more when Cas sleeps and he lies awake and pushes aside time and meaning just to stay here forever. 

They hold hands most of the time. They take care of gardens and greenhouses and bees, and they stand too close and smile too much and feel too much and it’s wonderful, it’s wonderful, it’s wonderful. 

It is the same as it was before between them: a slow progression in which every step feels like a leap already taken. 

* * *  

It is a blessing, in hindsight. They have almost two full weeks of sleepy kisses and irredeemable bedhead and slow smiles before time catches up with them. Time, and Castiel’s diminished physical state. 

“Hey Dean,” Cas says, in that almost inaudible hoarse voice that proclaims him pretty damn ill, “is it okay that I’m happy?”

“Little bit,” says Dean and snorts. By all means, Cas should look as far from happy as anyone could. He hasn’t been able to move in days, meaning the only washing he has done has been due to Dean and his washcloth. His hair is greasy and his eyes glassy and he is burning hotter than even a fire mage should. One of his hands - cracking open from not wanting to drink as much as his lips are - he has with a great show of will been able to lay on top of Dean’s, but there is no energy left for any kind of grip. Even his body seems heavier, sinking into the pillows and mattress as though he could fall through them any minute. 

Dean’s worried frown smooths a little. “Actually, not really,” he says and crawls fully into bed with Cas. “I’m happy, too.”

* * * 

It is three weeks into this miraculous new state of relationship that things change. It’s not that Castiel has been healthy the entire time before. They survived his first bout of weakness with Dean officially in the know well enough. Dean actually seemed calmer about taking care of Castiel now, less in need of being taken care of himself. 

As ever, it was frustrating and the hours and days dragged on. But Dean was there in a different way than before, more open to asking what exactly Castiel needed and utterly without hesitation to provide it. In the moments when Castiel needed warmth because it felt like with the waning of his powers as a fire mage all the heat got sucked out of him, Dean was there to make sure his fire was roaring. Dean brought tea after cup of tea. Dean made soup and lifted the bowl to Castiel’s mouth himself. Dean wrapped himself around Castiel and held him to stop his shivering with his own body warmth. And even though Castiel hurt down to his bones and his skin was sometimes too sensitive to bear touch without aching, Castiel let him. Perhaps it was was the only way to take care of Dean a little bit, too. 

They survived this proof of Castiel’s fading, but it does not come without a price. 

“It’s not your fault,” Dean huffs as Castiel confronts him when he finds how much of his tea has gone missing since he got sick again. “And you don’t have to mother me. I can handle it.” Castiel raises a single, unimpressed eyebrow. “I can,” Dean repeats, rolling his own eyes. His stance is defensive, his tone exasperated. “I just need a little help sometimes. Look, you can even do the whole vial of grief thing again, if you’re that worried. But I’m fine.”

Castiel still doesn’t speak, merely looks at Dean with what he knows is his least impressed facial expression. 

Finally, Dean deflates. 

“Look. It’s just a lot, okay. Seems like every damned thing I care about-...” He runs a hand over his eyes. “There is just so much death. I mean, my parents and my kid and you and so many damn plants. Even this tree is freaking  _ dying _ .”

He is gesturing somewhere behind Castiel, to the space near the front door of Castiel’s shop.

Frowning, Castiel says, “What tree?”

 

**_See me_ ** _ , the invisible god whispers. _

_ And he is seen.  _


	20. Chapter 20

When Castiel was a very small child, he fell up the stairs to the entrance of the old family herb shop. He knows this not only because he apparently hit his head so badly he still bears a scar just beneath the beginning of his hair above his ear, but also because it is one of his earliest memories. The first even, possibly. Sequence is difficult to determine in hindsight. 

What he remembers is not so much the pain or the shock of stumbling over his own clumsy feet, but the moments leading up to it. It was before he had a familiar of his own, of course, but his mother tells him he always got along well with his uncle’s komoran. His memory confirms this, as he vividly remembers turning in circle after dizzy circle trying to pet the playfully escaping bird. He’s outside, obviously, and it’s winter. He is packed up in very warm robes, but he has pulled off his gloves to be able to actually feel the bird’s feathers. There is no snow, but the sandy ground outside the shop is hard and frozen. Earlier, he spent a few hours trying to thaw a patch of it close to the display with what even then were emerging talents for warmth. He can still see the peeling paint of the front door, the purple velvet in the display with dried plants and beautiful blue bottles, even the structure of the wooden stairs he tripped on. 

He does not remember seeing a tree. There has never been a tree close to the front of his house for as long as he has lived. 

And yet. 

* * * 

“What tree?” he says, and notices it at the same time. Truly, it is impossible to miss. 

It is clear its glory days are far behind it, yet it is unmistakable it once stood tall and proud, growing into the very foundations and walls of the mansion. Its bark is worn and peeling off at some parts, and it is badly bent at unnatural angles. Oddly, he cannot determine what type of tree it is, even through one branch stubbornly still seems to bring forth leaves, now rich and green with summer. There aren’t many, but they aren’t in any shape Castiel, herbalist that he is, can identify as belonging to even a distinct family of trees. 

“Dean,” he says with a frown, and only just recalls that a moment ago, Dean was very upset. “I have never seen this tree before in my life.”

Dean’s eyes are still shining with unshed tears, but if nothing else, then the perplexity of this situation seems to distract him. 

“What do you mean? It’s always been here. Pala likes to pick fights with it. I always mean to check out if there’s anything I can do for it but then I-...” His brows draw closer, then his face goes blank with realisation. “Then I  _ forget _ . Cas. What if it’s the tree?”

Castiel, to whom this thought has occurred at roughly the exact same time, still asks, “What do you mean?”

“You’ve said it’s not the house making you sick. What if it’s the tree?”

“I don’t see how it is possible. Dean, I would rather you didn’t get your hopes up.”

“I’m not getting my freaking hopes up, I’m thinking. Can you remember anyone from your family talking about this tree?”

Castiel can not. 

“I’ll ask around,” he concedes. “It certainly doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

“Not a lick of it.” Dean runs a distraught hand over his face. “Man, I feel like I should write myself a note about it, just in case I forget again.”

“Why could you see it at all if I could not?” Castiel steps closer. At least it doesn’t seem to fade from his vision when he looks at Dean. 

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s like you said. It’s a curse. And if your family is cursed, it’s like, especially cruel to put the solution right in front of your noses and make you blind to it. It might even be the cure!”

“I doubt it.” When Castiel touches the bark with one hand and one of the leaves with the other, it barely even feels like a plant at all. Even with his fading powers he should be able to understand more about this tree than he does. But one thing could not be more obvious: “It’s dying, too.”

Dean takes one of Castiel’s hands and presses a kiss to it as naturally as if he’d never done anything else. He’s clearly distracted thinking and planning and getting ahead of himself while Castiel just for a moment lets himself get caught up in the unexpectedness of this small gesture. 

“Okay. Good,” Dean says. “We can work with that. Maybe it’s connected, maybe it’s not. But we should definitely try to save it, right?”

“It’s strange.” Castiel presses his ear against the rough trunk. “I can barely feel any life force in it at all. I don’t know if I can affect it with my abilities.”

Dean breathes out with a shudder. 

“Definitely save it then.” 

* * *

Hope is a beautifully terrible little thing. It nourishes itself, refuses to be compromised even by the most inescapable of facts, and once it’s there, it will not leave. There is very little Castiel loves more about humanity than its eternal, nonsensical capability for it. 

To discover it once more stirring in himself -  _ for _ himself - is however a problem. To find its loud, bright-eyed presence in Dean is an even greater issue. There is nothing that can save Castiel. This has always been true. He has even taken the pains - sometimes literal - to conclusively prove this. Dean has only just begun to accept it. There is nothing to be found of this acceptance now. Instead, madly, _ hope _ . 

Dean spends a long time on the ground. Much like Castiel, he cannot get a read on what exactly the tree needs, but he does have a good feeling for what is lacking in the sandy soil surrounding it. While Castiel watches with a hand on the bark, he digs careful holes into it and brings the minerals down deep without injuring the roots. Even they are withering, but with pearls of sweat on his brow, Dean drives fresh water into them and up the tree. There are not many veins open for it, and it’s slow work not making the sluggish capillaries burst with the sudden input, but this much at least Castiel is capable of feeling out. 

When he feels better at the end of the day, he does not know whether to attribute it to such precise use of his powers or allow hope to grow further. 

It does so anyway. 

* * *  

“So listen,” Dean is saying. He stayed with the tree while Castiel wrote himself several notes and contacted his family. So far, now that Castiel is not only aware of the tree, but has also magically interacted with it, he has not forgotten it exists. The same seems to apply to Dean, but neither of them is willing to take that risk. “You said there are a couple of journals or whatever of your ancestors here. We’ve done pretty much all we can for the tree at the moment, so maybe we should hit those up next?”

Castiel agrees, but there is another pressing subject to tackle. “I only spoke to my mother and Anna, who will of course ask the extensive rest of the family, and neither knows of this tree either. It seems unlikely we will find much mention of it in my immediate family’s writings. Though of course we should not discount the possibility. I believe our next step should be finding out whether you are the only person who has ever taken note of it, or if anyone not connected to the Novak family is able to see it.”

“Yeah, that makes sense. How about you dig out the journals anyway and I hit up some people in the town?”

Castiel nods. The part of him not furiously thinking and rushing with magic and feeling the warmth of the sun in a t-shirt for the first time in ages is happy Dean is volunteering for this. Because hope is treacherous and if it is, ultimately, futile, the earlier plan to get Dean more involved with other people still stands. 

“I had no issues with my memory, by the way. It should be alright for both of us to leave.” 

“I think so, too.” He bends down to absentmindedly scritch Sage behind her ears. She meows a little. Castiel makes a mental note to feed her and Pala before he does anything else. 

“I’ll just call a couple of people,” Dean continues, “and then I’ll drive into town. Probably best to do that while it’s not that late yet.” 

The sun is by now far beneath its zenith and the early evening breeze has set in, mellowing the heat of its rays even if not its strength. Unlike his brother, Castiel is not actually a sun mage, but his natural affinity for heat and herbs did use to give him some sway over the way the temperature affects the plants. It is not an ability he has been able to practice in the last years, as it had never been particularly strong and therefore one of the first things to fade once the curse took hold of him. Today marks the first occasion since then that he tried. To no avail, of course, but he did try. Foolish. A good feeling. 

As if sensing the strange direction his thoughts are taking, Dean cups the nape of Castiel’s neck and kisses him softly, just once, then wraps his arms around him.  

“It’ll be okay,” he says, very quietly. “Even if all of this is going nowhere, it’ll be okay. I can handle it. If nothing else, it’s a pretty cool mystery, huh?”

Castiel kisses him again.

* * *

The notebooks are all still in the exact locations where he last saw them. He remembers where they are, because he put them there. Not in one section of the house, but rather near the accomplishments owed to the authors. For the most part, their writings are descriptions of experiments and findings rather than journals, though a few of them did add personal experiences or even mostly dedicated the pages to them, with new potions or a new revelation about herb care merely scribbled in the margins. Castiel has read them all before at least once. A few of his favorites several times. And every once in a while, they are very helpful. He does not remember reading anything about the tree outside, but he could be wrong. Some of them have a very difficult handwriting. Even Anna with her understanding of even the most complicated of runes had a hard time with them. Then again, with her talents lying where they do, there was not much use for a more extensive studying of the material left by their ancestors in her case. 

After sorting the journals by likely relevance and readability both - Dean should likely be spared the worst of them, as well as his great-uncle’s writing, who fancied himself a poet and kept getting upset not to find perfect rhymes in botanical names - he sits down at the window of his apartment. It is overlooking not only Dean’s greenhouse, he notices now, but also lets him keep an eye on the highest branches of the tree, which are, of course, perfectly visible. With a smile he sees Pala, who appears to be circling the tree, as if she were watching over it. 

He opens the first journal. 

* * *

Dean returns late enough that the sun has set, though this is not the alarming part. 

Castiel himself is not yet tired, though his eyes are weary from squinting at page after page of scribble to no avail. So far, not even one casual mention of the tree has come to light, and certainly no member of his large and prestigious herbalist family ever had the idea of examining it. The sinking of the sun made readability worse. Not in the mood for artificial light, he lit some candles. Their small flames buzz beautifully on his skin and the edges of his awareness. 

He is relieved to have a good reason to take a break nonetheless. 

Dean doesn’t quite barge into the room, but it’s clear he is either agitated or at least excited. 

“I brought someone,” he says without preamble. “I tried a couple of people, but they all couldn’t remember ever seeing a damn tree in front of your building. The lady at the pet store knows about your family curse though. Nothing useful, but the thing about the familiars and-”

“What usually happens after,” Castiel finishes. 

“Exactly. I called Sam, too. My brother. He said he never really looked across the street when he bought the grounds, but he’s coming.”

He runs a nervous hand through his hair and Castiel remembers how Dean told him he wasn’t really in contact with his brother or anyone else in the family. Before he has a chance to comment on this development, Dean barges on. “He knows stuff about family history. He’s also a seer? Like, a powerful one? I don’t think I ever mentioned that. He doesn’t like to mention that. His employers don’t know that either. I don’t really see anything more than the ordinary, but I figured this thing might be mythical and we could use his help. And then I remembered we know someone else who knows things. Well, a couple of people, but long story short, I brought Joaquin.”

Castiel’s eyebrows rise up. 

“But you’re terrified of him.” 

“I’m also terrified of calling my brother or acknowledging that I once had a son or that this might all mean nothing and you’ll die anyway. I can deal with Joaquin. Also, he’s kind of… funny? Weird sense of humor. The car ride was an experience. He’s downstairs looking at the tree.” 

* * *

Joaquin is indeed in front of the Novak mansion, as gloomy as ever in the low glow of the slight illumination of Castiel’s displays. Truly, Castiel has never spent enough time with him to get past that initial sense of alarm of being seen through completely. But now that the cat is out of the bag, so to speak, this no longer matters. 

“I never even told him the tree was there. He zoomed in on his own,” Dean told him while they walked down the narrow stairs. And indeed, he was inspecting the tree with a strange glow in his eyes. 

For a while, none of them speak. Finally, Joaquin opens his mouth. 

“Your greenhouse is a marvel of glasswork and wrought iron. I’ve always been told so, but I have not seen it so far.”

It’s a rather strange beginning, and Joaquin’s voice is as thin and whispy as ever, and while Castiel wants to tell him he is of course welcome to come inside as well, he merely waits for continuation. 

“My family has not always lived here. They have come and they have gone. Some live like wind and some seek roots which aren’t there. We leave traces. We know things.”

Shivering, Dean steps just close enough to Castiel that their shoulders brush. It’s sweet. Castiel wishes he could deal only with learning Dean’s mannerisms. 

“We built your greenhouse. We were there before, too. Before this tree, and after it.” He pauses, and some distant twinkle in his eye tells Castiel it is for dramatic effect. 

“There is a story,” he says finally. “It’s been in our family for generations. It begins like this.”   
Dean takes Castiel’s hand. 

“ _ Most of the gods of old still remember the glory of their creation.” _

* * *

Later, when Joaquin has been driven back to the bar by a tense Dean and both Dean and Castiel have made it back upstairs and to Castiel’s bedroom, the collapse that has been a long time coming finally happens. 

It begins with a shuddering breath against the back of Castiel’s neck. They are lying on the bed, only undressed far enough for it to still be comfortable, and Dean is holding him so tight it almost hurts, even though Castiel is not hypersensitive at the moment. They have not spoken since Dean got back. They don’t speak now, either, but Castiel turns around and holds Dean in turn.

Together, as they weep, they allow themselves to feel it. 

_ Hope. _

_ As the invisible god is recognized, a shudder goes around the world. Deep into the earth it reaches, right down to the center of the molten hot core. It courses through oceans, flies over mountains, fills the outer edges of the world’s atmosphere. It is a shudder so substantial even the gods of old take notice.  _

_ In the years since they condemned their new brother to a sorry mortal state, they have forgotten about him. Some have done so quite on purpose, others simply because it is not in their nature to remember anything but ancient glory.  _

_ They all remember him now, the invisible god and the mortals he has had to weave around himself.  _

_ And some of the gods, just some of them, feel shame.  _

_ It is enough.  _


	21. Chapter 21

The next days and weeks pass in a hurry and flurry of activity. What has been a shared solitary existence suddenly becomes filled with people coming and going and coming back with new ideas. 

It’s a strange group of people. 

Dean’s brother Sam has apparently taken vacation days just to fly out. He comes armed with an abundance of family chronicles and seeing the tree for the first time has his eyes so wide Dean laughs tears at the sight. It’s strange watching them together. Stilted, sometimes, and at others reminiscent of the way Castiel himself has experienced having siblings. 

Anna crosses the ocean too, for a few days, as does Gabriel, who not only manages to piss Dean off at every possible moment, but also helps a great deal with his abilities as a sun mage, practically feeding the tree light. 

Maria and Joaquin are still mountains of might, but they are also becoming true friends. Castiel refrains from commenting on the fact that Dean and Joaquin have the same taste in music. And while Eli’s abilities are far less useful for what they are trying to accomplish, his wonderful creations ease much of the tensions and have the tendency to turn dinners into celebrations. 

In truth, it is a task force undertaking a massive research project with a clear and important goal, but although occasionally some personalities clash, and progress is slower than it should be considering the sheer amount of assembled talent, both magical and otherwise, Castiel himself feels no urgency. 

They have managed to not only stabilize the tree-like manifestation of the invisible god, they have managed to heal it enough that Castiel no longer feels sick as often. He is not yet back to his previous magical talent, but physically, he feels better than he has in years. Slowly, cautiously, he is coming to accept he might no longer be dying. 

Dean, he is pleased to note, is actually a social person. While he has his own conflicts with people, he is also a master mediator and he seems to flourish the more he gets used to being around so many people again. 

That, and the time they get to spend together. As busy as the days are, with two greenhouses, gardens and shops to manage and family to deal with, the nights are entirely their own. Thanks to some extensive runework courtesy of Anna, of course, which seals the bedroom in Castiel’s apartment off completely once the door is closed. 

And Dean still can’t sleep much, but Castiel has an idea for a tea that will help with the lack of sleep potions. It won’t need to be strong. It won’t need to suppress nightmares. 

They can handle nightmares and grief and memories. And on the days when one of them cannot, the other is more than happy to share his part of the burden. 

* * *

“Hello little cat,” Castiel says to Sage one fine October day. He has been dozing outside in the autumn sun in his garden and she woke him by jumping on his chest. She has grown very little since she came to live with him, though her meows have gotten progressively louder, perhaps with growing confidence in everyone else’s lack of understanding. It’s not what she does now, though. She merely looks at Castiel with eyes too large for the current light situation. Castiel looks back, his content drowsiness slowly dissipating in the warm air around him. 

Instead, “Oh,” he says, and with a smile, “Yes, I gladly accept.”

Sage blinks at him once, and then curls up on his chest to begin purring. 

Overhead, Pala is flying in swooping, looping circles, spending the time waiting for Dean to be done with his work with the simple, joyful celebration of life itself. Soon, Castiel’s bees will settle into their hive for the night, and the world will grow dark and filled with starlight. He will go inside, eventually, and spend all dinner thinking about whether he should point out that Dean has not been at his own place in a week and that more and more of his things have naturally migrated to Castiel’s upstairs apartment. Dean will tell him about the part of the day they haven’t spent together and do the dishes and put them away in a way that makes sense for him in Castiel’s kitchen. At the windowsill, the little white hyazinth is in fact drying up, but Castiel regularly checks on it and is pleased to note it is merely retreating into its bulb to gather strength for the next spring.   

His eyes have fallen closed again, and while his lips twitch into an even brighter smile, he keeps them closed as Dean settles into the grass next to him. 

“What are you thinking about?” he asks with a quick kiss to Castiel’s forehead. He seems to be smiling, too. He does this a lot, now. Castiel can see it clearly without even looking, but he still opens his eyes and turns his head. Dean’s eyes are gentle and fond and as he takes Castiel’s hand, Castiel takes a quick moment of channelling to reassure himself this is not a superficial feeling. Dean is not without bad days, but today - as on most days, really - everything bright and happy about him is entirely genuine. 

“Life,” Castiel answers, and cups Dean’s cheek.  

Life, he means. And how lucky he is to be living the very best of it. 

  
_ The invisible god has spent a long time unseen. It has been his lot since before his older siblings brought him to assume the mortal form of a tree. He is still bound in this form, but for the moment, he does not mind it.  _

_ He is not alone. He is not dying yet. There are humans, quite a few of them, hard at work at freeing him. He has noticed the pattern of siblings. He would like to speak to his own, though not in words of anger. He is a god of balance.  _

_ The man he was bound to, he has been able to mostly let go. Instead, he has formed smaller, less substantial bonds with the people coming and going. So small are these bonds, it is not necessary to replace their familiars. So small are they, they are not much affected by it at all. They will live a bit longer, perhaps, and with fewer ailments. Their magic will flourish, but not overly so. He is a god of balance.  _

_ The invisible god does not remember the glory of creation, but he sees it every day, as well as all the other things these remarkable humans show both each other and him.  _

_ The invisible god is not invisible, now. He does not mind being a tree for a little while longer.   _

 

**The End.**

**Author's Note:**

> ... Did I actually manage to write a slow burn friends to loves WITHOUT MUTUAL PINING?????
> 
> ... And is the ending way too rushed?????
> 
> But seriously, thank you for reading! :D I haven't answered comments in the past because I feel weird about it boosting my comment count, but I think I might do it this time because I also feel weird about getting feedback and being super excited about it and then never telling the person who gave it that it made my week. 
> 
> So if you have time and liked our work, drop harplesscastiel and me a line! :)


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